Back When

this is what i remember:
the soft folds of skin on her hands
and the way she placed them on our shoulders
and laughed because we'd grown taller
than she was.
a photograph of her and her sisters
giant bows
and high, button shoes
the smile the same
some ninety years later.
she knew more than the photographer-
tolerated him
for the sake of being captured
for a moment.
her signature on every card
the way the phone never worked when she was on it
her macaroni salad
stroganoff
jambalaya
hugs.
small, and i was helping decorate the tree
for christmas
i have some of the ornaments, now
and i place them high
out of reach of wee curious hands
before i hang them i let them rest
in my palm
show the babies,
look. this was hers. i remember when i was your age, i hung this one.
i cannot say
when i was your age
i thought forever was real.
i think my hands might be
like hers were
years ago, when she dressed up in a jaunty hat
and polka-dot dress
the prettiest one in the picture
clutching her purse in front of her
waiting for something
to come along
and happen.