May 18, 2015

I asked about calling or sending you flowers but it seems that
you're so close to death that there isn't any point
the doctors
they say that this might be it.
But how can this be it?

You, my immortal grandmother
whose laugh lines and permed hair
somehow made you look
decades younger
than your ninety-odd years
How could old age catch up with you?

Part of me believed that it never would
I suppose.

I assumed that you would use your
razor quick wit
nimble fingers adorned with heavy rings
the cane the doctor made you start carrying
to fend it off
until the end of time.

It seems impossible to think of you
sinking into a too-big hospital bed
smelling of chemicals instead of Eau de Parfum
collarbones poking out from a paper gown
which has no pockets to put tissues
and little lemon-drop candies.

You, my grandmother
who lived on Mountain Avenue since you were two
in a house that hosted four generations of our family.
I wish I could carry you back there
to sit in the old, wicker furniture
and watch the cars go by.
"The blue one is mine, the red one is yours."

But I will accept whatever happens
because there's no point in
raging
against the universe
but
if something happens
I hope that you know that you were loved.

That you are loved, still
that you you exist in the marrow of my bones
in my crooked pinky finger
along the curve of my jaw
in my wavy, unmanageable hair
and the memory of you that lives on through me.

You are always my
Grandma.