You do not remember that self,
that more-than-half-century-ago self,

that skinny girl with braces and so much
life ahead of her, though she sports the crinkly

left eye that still looks smaller when you
smile, as if you are winking, just like

your 93-year-old mother, you who have
inherited her eye color and now

the glaucoma that darkens her days. And,
of course, you got older, grayer, heftier,

wrinklier. If you are lucky, you get to do that,
as your mother shows you every day, unlike

some of your beloveds who celebrated far
fewer birthdays on the planet. You smile

at your former self on the wall in your
mother’s house every time you look

at her, even if you don’t remember that
girl very well. Somewhere deep inside—

she nudges you with a wink—
she remembers you.