Since memory has started
to betray her, grandmother bottles
everything she can.
During summer, I wake up to see her
scuttling around the garden
with a sack full of jars.
In the distance, a cow in a field calls
for her calf but hears nothing in return.
Grandmother kneels before a hedge
of flowers, picks one of every kind
and puts them in separate jars.
Yesterday, when the morning sun
yawned full and red, she called me
to help her capture it,
said something this beautiful is rare
and should be preserved for winter.

She gets up and walks
further ahead, the jars jiggle
and sounds almost like bells.
Once, she mistook me for my father
and said she can’t remember
if she ever held me. During the night,
she sleeps with morning jars opened,
thinking soon it will seep out.
In the distance, the cow
hears the glass bells and moves
towards the garden, wishing to find
something she thinks she has lost.