Snap Decision

I find her reading glasses on the counter
where she always left them, beside the bowl
she used for keys she never found again.

I find the knife she kept for tomatoes only,
the blade thin from years of sharpening,
the handle worn to the shape of her grip.

I pick it up.

I find the envelope in her dresser drawer,
unmarked, and inside: three teeth, small as seeds,
from children whose names I almost remember.

She was saving them. I am saving them now.

I find the notebook where she wrote her lists.
Milk. Stamps. Call the doctor back.
The last page says don't forget and nothing after.

She forgot. I am forgetting now.

I find the robe behind the bathroom door,
the one she wore those last weeks,
the one that smells like her, and under that,
like copper, like the pills, like the end.

I put it on.

She stands in the mirror.
She looks like someone
she used to know.

She puts on the glasses
and she can finally see: