Your hand was cold, clammy and
elegant stiff fingers turned in the polish
long gone from those beautiful nails
palm up turned out toward the closed curtain
eyes shut
half the size I remember
you buried deep beneath the blankets in
the bed you’d shared with Grandad
all my life, I missed that spot in the middle
that we used to take turns sneaking in
to in the early morning hours
cuddle up to your soft side
old world night shift nurse
you never minded that, even though
you never got out of the habit of
staying up into the wee hours.
That morning morphine bottles
up around the headboard
near the stool I’d been sitting on
six hours before, holding a cigarette to your
pale lips hearing your stories of better times
me almost thinking it would all be ok because
you were still smoking, and then
remembering that you
always hated smoking in bedrooms.
You’d seen too many burns victims in your day
but were too sick to take your place, hold your own
in the sun
in the kitchen by the window, near your
swan plants
like you used to
where we’d talk and laugh
those days when I wasn’t at school and
you’d teach me through a thick cloud of smoke
show me better ways of thinking
explain the books I used to pull down from
your shelves but could only pretend to understand
You answering every question
between filling in your cryptic crossword
and making cups of tea, staring me down
over the table top sharing
your presence with all of us
your history and strength wound into
the strong long hands you took such care of.
You made me feel like my words were important,
they were to you Grandmother.
I miss you
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