On the day my grandma died,
I found freesia blooming in my yard.
Pure white,
with a tinge of living yellow deep in their throats.
On the day my grandma died,
I stopped at the store on my way out to see her to buy food she would love--
Salmon, rice, kale, special butter for her toast.
On the day my grandma died,
I pulled weeds in my yard.
Having internalized the way she taught me,
I grasped firmly at the base, never thinking of her,
pulled slowly, wiggled slightly, and pulled carefully
to ensure I got all the roots.
On the day my grandma died,
I cooked a meal she would have loved
even though she was no longer able to eat.
On the day my grandma died,
I sang to her and held her hand.
Some songs she loved, some songs
Pandora thought she might like.
Sometimes there were commercials.
On the day my grandma died,
I saw images of her life as I held her hand,
as she may have seen them.
I struggle to hold onto them now.
On the day my grandma died,
I wanted words, poetry
but I didn't know where to look or how to find them.
On the day my grandma died,
I prayed aloud--in front of my family and all--
Lord, take away her suffering. Dear God, please,
take away her pain.
On the day my grandma died,
I made her promises that I pray to God I am strong enough to keep.
On the day my grandma died, I kissed and smelled the top of her head over and over, desperate
to retain the memory of what it was like to be close to her, not wanting to
lose that too.
On the day my grandma died,
I told her that I loved her 57 times, and it still doesn't feel like enough.
On the day my grandma died, I tried to assure her that we knew
everything I assume she would have wanted to tell us.
I hope I got it right.
On the day my grandma died,
I watched her breathing get slower and slower.
At the end
it was so slow.
On the day my grandma died, I felt my grandfather's giant, warm, invisible hands on my shoulders, looking over my head at his wife. I found I had been waiting for him.
On the day my grandma died, I watched her draw her last breath and felt her life drain from the hand I was holding.
On the day my grandma died, I felt very much at peace. The missing her came later.
