despite not knowing what day
or month it is
my mother
has never lost her appetite
for food
and drink.
the divining rod
of hunger
leads her to the table.
her dish gets filled
and you place
a fork into her
hand after helping her
into a sturdy chair.
you give her a napkin,
placing it on her lap
then move the plate
closer to where
her arms, and long
veined hands can reach.
perhaps the memory of food
is serving her
well, keeping here
for another year.
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