Fascinating
Every time I sojourned with Grandma June in hospice,
she made me eat her food so she didn’t have to.
She thought she was entertaining us.
We were her houseguests.
She refused to spoon soup into her mouth.
The sweetness of the honey buns
got me through the visits.
She was generous in the face of illness.
My mom wakes me up.
She tells me Grandma is no longer alive.
I can almost hear Grandma’s voice
as I see her spirit beside me.
She was suddenly more alive than ever.
“Get out of bed! Get up! Now!”
She’s been horizontal far too long.
She doesn’t like seeing me waste
my youth asleep.
I bury my body in blankets.
I finally sob
while sitting on the toilet.
She says, “While you poop?”
She keeps saying, “Fascinating.”
Life after death is fascinating to her.
Air feels lighter.
Snow is whiter.
I am a grown woman.
She’s doing cartwheels.
Fascinating.
I whisper, “I can hear you, Grandma.”
I ask God if I’m supposed to
send her to the light.
I go about my day.
I find diversions.
With each new detour,
I hear her voice
less and less.
My dad proffers her sweater
and the last of the honey buns
from her hospice room.
I sniff the sweater
It still smells like her.
I ask God if getting her
to the light
can be between them for now.
I am not generous today.
I have a treat to savor.
It’s sweet and warm.
She gives to me once more,
while yelling,
“Get me to the light?
I am the light!”
And she is.
The whitest light.