What Happens to the Memories?

What happens to the Friends
who have dwindled?
The faces that time made soft -
blurred into faded photographs?

I wonder who they are.
And where - maybe what
they are doing.

Within the dark places,
the recesses within where we all remain,
patient children. The me that was -
hums - alone in a corner. Her fingers,
draw across the floor, gathering shadows.

She wonders if they would recognize her.
The people who once were, but now
are not.

Are they still a friend, if they don't remember?
Or have they become strangers,
who nod politely, preoccupied.
Focused, as they cross the street.
The spark of recognition, like the light,
Changes.

But the face they expect to see,
the me they are looking for,
has gone.
A memory is a brittle thing,
fading into the pieces of things
as they are now.

Though I raise my hand,
though I wear a bright scarf. . .

They do not see me.