On the Death of My Grandmother

Sometimes
Somebody dies. Where they go
I do not know that I care: for a moment, they
Were,
Grain of sand in outstretched,
Open hand.

Screen door slamming; skillet
Sizzling on the range. False teeth in
Small glass; thoughtful critic, new-mown
Grass. Leaf chopping, weekly shopping. Trips
To the bank. Often a crank but always
Loving. Pushing, pulling, even
Shoving; molding, scolding, gazing firm
At something I could not see, something
She knew
I could be.

A better place?

I see her face
Not in the sky but in
Myself:
I keep no ashes on my shelf.

Sometimes
Some body dies; but
People
Live.

-Dedicated to Fern Durst, 1917-2010

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4 thoughts on “On the Death of My Grandmother

  1. Really, really well done. I loved it. Loved especially your line about seeing your grandmother in yourself, and when she was gazing at something that you couldn’t see, but that she knew you could be. So poignant. Just excellent. Thank you, thank you for sharing. I’m so glad you had this experience with your grandmother…

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