This poem was written in the early 2000s,
when I returned to live in California.

My mother died in Modesto,
Somewhere close to where I sit today,
but I’m not sure where, exactly,
the roads leading west out of town
looking much alike.
Would I recognize the building,
if it still exists, a small,
non-descript nursing home?
The last time I visited her,
with my toddler, she seemed happy,
though scattered among times and
places it was hard for her
to keep track of.
It is hard to know where she thought
she was and who she thought
she was with.
Did Modesto, the hot, dry valley town,
matter to her at all?