My Mother's Room (revisited)

She knows me, but I don't know her.

This frail woman who gave me life

is a stranger now

in a pastel prison

with a pink curtain

dividing her room in half.

I bring her hot coffee in a throwaway cup

and she holds it to her lips,

savoring the taste and smell,

smiling,  remembering perhaps

coffee in her own kitchen long ago.

Then she takes me on a journey

into the past, 

recalling people and places,

her dog running to meet her

as she wove her way home from school.

Her bike rides, games,

and marbles--simple pleasures

from a time I've never seen.

It will never be that way again

and neither will she.

Time will strip her

of her muscles and memories.

She knows me, but some day soon

I will be the stranger

she is to me now.