My aunt and I used to play dominoes on the kitchen table  

On summer nights when I was too young to be crushed by the weight of my surroundings 

I remember that being the only full summer I spent in Mexico 

I think I could remember how to play these days  

If I got thrown into a game, but anyway  

Her place, my grandpa's place had this big steel gate, she’d say  

Be in my dark or don't come in at all 

I just recently understood that not coming in was never an option  

All the stores would close  

Everyone was indoors  

Not because of Tia  

But because narcos didn't want anyone out after dark  

Dominoes  

We'd play, she taught me how  

And I remember her saying  

That while my still, towering grandpa watched pieces move around table  

He'd settled down for bed 

She had to help him into bed  

She had to help him with everything  

I never thought anything of it  

That's grandpa, I guessed 

My mother's father remembered some of his kids names sometimes  

He'd sing on occasion, or fall silent for a stretch  

After a life long lived and hard worked  

Raising thirteen kids, growing apple groves  

Mother nature came to collect for his success 

I later learned I was a lot like him 

Artistic flair  

Tendency to isolate  

Deep desire for independence 

He refused to be employee 

You could almost say  

He worked himself to death  

After many seasons preparing soil, planting, harvesting, watching over his land  

His mind rotted before he could enjoy the fruits of his labor 

Now he was past the point of no return  

On a slow descent. 

My father's mother had just left as I arrived back home 

I'd like to think  

We passed each other going opposite directions on the highway 

She was peacemaker between four boys  

Still mourning a fifth  

She’ld come by every so often  

And made everyone gather at our place  

She'd say 

I'm comfortable here  

If you want to see me  

Make your way 

I ain't going to you 

My grandma had a heavy heart full of secrets  

She grew all her boys into men  

Season by season  

Never stopped looking after them  

Took every chance to enjoy her harvest  

But, due to rough terrain they were cursed with  

Some of them required more care and attention than she had left 

To this day I still feel little kid safe when I smell cigarettes  

She was loud  

Drank with the men  

And wasn't afraid to tell you like it is  

If her boys wanted a shower her with gifts  

She'd let them  

If they had to hide a skeleton 

She'd help them  

She looked happy and healthy, my father said 

No one would have anticipated her fast descent 

Not long after getting home  

Her mind started to dissolve  

Like ash at the end of a fast burning cigarette 

She was gone in days 

I think I've always been afraid to meet the same fate 

But if my aunt taught me anything 

It’s that you can't control the hand you draw  

You can only control the way you play  

A couple years ago  

I quit smoking again  

Started working out  

Eating better  

For one  

Cause I was getting a gut  

But  

I think it's the safest way I know to stay sane  

To protect my brain against the wear and tear  

Of stress over age 

I learned how to meditate 

I think I do it  

To try and habituate myself into paying attention to my mind 

Whatever part be self  

Whatever part be mind  

Maybe it's a desperate attempt to hedge my bets  

And maybe if my medial temporal fails me, my basal ganglia will save me  

When I notice anxiety, rage  

I think of them as plague pooling, eating at my body and mind 

I remind myself to not feed them, and they'll leave in time  

I try my hardest to get seven to nine every night 

I've started journaling every day 

Just in case  

I ever need to IV in some of my experiences  

To make up for lost memories 

It's an ongoing debate  

Whether I should journal everything 

All my random thoughts  

Or just facts, dates, and names 

I find that I write in this tone  

As if the future me reading it knows  

Everything I know  

But if I really lost it  

Maybe my journal should read more like a biography  

Would I want to remember how people and things made me feel  

Emotional footnotes possibly 

If normal memories are only fifty percent accurate  

If they're altered every time they're accessed  

Then the only reliable way to not chance it  

Is to always be packing a notebook  

To write things down as they happen  

I'm working on wrangling my attention  

Cause they get the best definition on these written images  

I need to be  

Like a hundred and ten percent present  

Then again  

That's still pretty subjective  

Is the me found through my eyes  

Or should I list the help of a third person perspective  

I know I can't win life 

The best thing I can do  

Is play well 

And hope the game extends 

Maybe, I'll even get to be me through my descent