Generations

Their eyes speak first, these babies of my babies.
Lips, cheeks, sweet smell.
By the way, my mother is losing her mind, I whisper.
Holding them brings yesterday and tomorrow,
and I struggle to swallow.
I lean forward to kiss a cheek that was a son’s, remembering
a perfect moment in an imperfect life.
Their great-grandmother sits quietly, and I must remind her of their names. Again.