The daughter bends over
arranges her mother’s treasures
creating a commotion of dust motes
swinging from sill to bureau. A galaxy.
Crumbly dirt from Central Park
a shattered rock the size of a baby’s fingernail scraped from Denali
sun secreted from Death Valley. Six bobby pins.
The mother pulls her close.
The daughter smells her illness.
It is called memory.
In ten years, there will be a cure for it.