I wrote this right after my Grandma died. My apologies if I’ve published it here before.
sitting on the floor
of grandma’s back deck
in my funeral clothes
head leaned against the white boards
of the side
peeking out through the screen
waiting for the cows to come back.
my shoes are uncomfortable,
sitting like this-
high heels and ankle straps
twisted around
but i don’t bother moving
out of their way.
i used to have these red shoes
high-tops, canvas
and every time i wore them over there
grandma would tell me the same story
about an old friend
back in california
who showed up at a party
in bright red sneakers
and everyone laughed
and thought it was great
and i made sure i wore mine
when i went there
just so i could hear the story
one more time.
when i needed new ones, i bought black
and i never heard the story again
about her friend in california.
now the black ones are worn
and i’m buying red again
and maybe if i try
i’ll hear her voice in my head
her chuckle as she told me
how much she liked my sneakers.
when she was alive
we sat out here on the deck
drinking powdered raspberry-flavored iced tea
out of tall, heavy glasses
(i used to bite chunks out of her juice glasses
when i was small and lived with her-
i don’t know why)
eating sandwich cookies
(take two, she’d say, holding the apple-shaped cookie jar
out to my kids)
watching the cows in the pasture behind the house
walking slowly by
glancing our way with their big dumb eyes
making her wonder
every time
if they were watching us
watching them.
i can hear everyone inside
laughing, dishes bumping rudely
up against each other
there are people in her kitchen
looking through drawers for lids
and ladles
and rolls of saran wrap.
i pulled the strings off some snap peas
for my aunt
and then i was done.
they put her in a box
some bizarre fed-ex to heaven
i know she believed it
i hope she was right.
one day, a couple years ago, maybe
the cows were gone.
we sat outside in the sun
with our tea and our cookies
and she said she thought the farmer
must have moved them.
my funeral clothes
itchy hose and the necklace i only wear for good
because i’m afraid i might lose it
would be getting dirty
if it was anyone’s house
but hers.
they carried her out
four burly strangers in suits
and carefully arranged
Expressions of Sorrow
stoic, like solders for the dead
past everyone watching
they all stood and watched her go
(she couldn’t have weighed eighty pounds-
i would have carried her myself)
as if she was the only one
in the parade.
i saw them coming
saw the bench in front of me flying up
and then i am outside
in the cold
holding the baby
while some woman who didn’t know her
says a prayer
and we walk away
and leave our package
behind.
it’s cold today,
snowing.
she always kept the house warm-
too hot, the others said-
but after so long, why be cold if you don’t have to?
and i want to ask
if her box is insulated
i can’t think about her in the dark
i want to take her out.
i want to bring her home.
i want to undo time
and make it pay attention
to what’s important.
the voices are too much
too loud, too happy
their footsteps falling in the places
her silence leaves behind
(she used to talk about davenports
and tramping through the house-
dinosours, she said
and warsh)
and i can’t say what i would give to hear her voice again.
i can smell aunt yae’s cooking
and i know inside there are people
who loved her, just like i do
even the ones i can’t even look at
they miss her too.
maybe i am simply
smaller than they are
less equipped to let go of someone
gracefully.
she is not here.
her house is taken over by others
who don’t know where she kept things
or that the chair on the right side of the breakfast table
is hers
and please don’t sit there.
there is no malice here-
i know this.
this is what they call
coming together in their grief
but i am coming apart
in mine
and i want to sit here as long as i have to
until the cows come back.
