I don't remember leaving my great grandmother's house
for the last time.
I don't remember stepping out that familiar door
or walking down those steps
I'd walked down a thousand times before,
but it must have happened
because I am not there now
and neither is she.
I don't remember the last time I spoke to her
or the last hug she gave me.
I remember how she felt, how she sounded,
but the precious moments escape me
because the anticipation of the next time remained.
Now my ears and my arms are empty.
I don't remember deciding I liked earl grey tea
with a dash of honey stirred in.
The sharp taste and the lingering sweetness
brings to mind past sips, but then the flavor fades
and I am left with a warm chest and a burned tongue.