Her dress shimmered tiny pink and green flower gardens

like a tablecloth in a rural twentieth century 

American farmhouse, something tender

you never saw since you were a child too,

pleats and folds along the bodice,

tucks and stitchery made with a patience

that barely abides anymore, her hair tightly braided

and coiled in circles against her perfect head

with tiny red ribbons at elegant intervals,

but when you said, Memories, her face fell.

She whispered, we left them, we had to 

leave everything in our house, 

my cabinet, my doll, my books,

my pepper plant, my pillow.

Nothing now we knew before.

But we have a few pictures.

My memories live in my mother’s phone.