Most of what they do is unseen, under water, in the yarn,
within the steaming fog of burnt meals.
They shell pistachios,
drop them in a bowl,
making sure they are just the right size.
They peel and segment clementines for
another&srquot;s tiny hands.
They hold her tiny hands, not-so-softly,
across Woodward Avenue.
They wash the humus from soft baby hair.
They make lists,
like this one: food lists,
birthday lists, lists for doing the unforgetting that needs to get done.
They are constantly moving,
a whir of fingers knitting, knitting, knitting.
They tie knots and then untie them,
they grow pain, they go numb.
In the yard, wild onions are picked,
smelled, handed over to the one-year-old
girl who was born to smell them, too.
They rake leaves and scatter them
across the dirt.
They freeze. And use this moment
to sneak into a warm pocket
for a small respite, only small enough
to feel that they are remembered.