Shrilly
we
twist into
life demanding
accommodation
the way an alarm
clock unwinds itself
into a dream. My
grandmother is
93, lying on
her side in the
nursing home she
hates, pink cluster
earring riding
shotgun on her
shrunken head.
I recognize her
by family photos
on the nightstand
beside her other
earring. Her dried
sunflower
grace evokes
my childhood home
far from
her
awareness
drifting
in and out in
tantalizing ways.
Imagine - Susan
a grandmother!
she beams on
waking. I am
26. Two unmatched
bookends bore
into my body
and the
baby clings
marsupially
in simultaneous
silence.
I wonder if
they feel a filial
connection to
this ancient sack
of deer antlers
startled
in our headlights.
How did you find me
here? she asks. I’m
sorry you have to
see me like this
and not as
I really
am. She went
peacefully
they tell me as
they make her
extinct with
Lysol and clean
sheets in her newly
vacant room.
They even have
the gall to say
she didn’t
suffer
but I know
they’re wrong.
The furniture
moved inside
her head,
landmarks
displaced by
smug professional
kindness as if
she’s no one
anymore. Such
annihilation
kills before
the body does.
Wife, mother,
grand and great-
grandmother gone
and I move up
a step in the
family
dance. We all
move up and
the music
resumes
and someday
we dream
silently out
of life if
we’re
lucky,
demanding
nothing.
