Granny

Life is passing.
Everything you need and more at your disposal.
Not getting beyond the initial proposal.
The message is: life doesn’t last forever.
Everybody knows that.

I have so many memories
yet so few compared to all
the ones you took with you, Granny.

I remember you couldn’t make it
to my first communion.
So when you finally came,
they made me dress up again.
Every time you came to visit for a few days,
I grudgingly let you stay in my room.
Not that I had a choice.
These youthful resentments and your odd ways
made you a stranger,
which make me wonder even more
how it is that we began to correspond.
So many letters over the years,
we actually became close
and there was a special love.
This year I threw away the letters,
trusting that all the memories
were in my heart.

Foolish enough to deny you could depart.
Now you’re gone and I have a few letters,
perhaps that helps me better hear your laugh,
remember the tone of your voice.
You had enough love for four generations of children.
I couldn’t see you as often as I would’ve liked,
but made the most of every opportunity.
So the pain that I feel is free of regrets or guilt
for things not done or said.
We did the best we could.

Now you’re gone, and the loss is no less acute
for the knowledge that we had it good.
You had a good long life.
A feisty little old lady, who stayed young until the end.
That’s how we’ll remember you,
A granddaughter’s best friend.

Three chocolate bars in three days and the first coffee in half a year,
a nondescriptive sunny day as I sit here, and it occurs to me –
this must be what it means to grieve.
This is what you do when loved ones leave.
I’d only wept with and comforted others,
reassured them that grief could take years,
but what did I know?
Why do grown-ups cry when loved ones go?

(For my grandmother, who died 4 1/2 years ago.)