the missing glasses

she can't see
without her glasses.
in fact I've never seen her without
a pair on.
even when she was a child,
there they were, perched on
her nose.
who took them? a memento perhaps,
slipped
into a purse or pocket,
or lost
in the shuffle of hands
that care for her.
the glasses have changed
through the years.
the black frames,
once tapped together with
white bandage tape,
the wide
ones,
the fancy
and sublime ones.
keeping hip with the day,
the glass thick as bottles.
I remember putting them on
as a kid
and feeling blind
and dizzy, holding my hands
in the air
trying to touch
the wall or chair
without falling,
but now, she has none.
her brown eyes are frameless.
she lies there
staring as if she's underwater,
never knowing who goes,
who comes.