my grandmother is dying

this is your page,
the one where we celebrate
digging for gems in
snow white fashion,
tart white wine

shots of green liqueur
when we were
too young for that shit,
our secret

intricacies of
the text message

cartwheel critiques
and sunflower empires
in the backyard,
me winded from a failed back flip,
you clapping anyway

dad in his depression after
mom bruised his heart when
we lived in your basement,
eating all my favourite snacks and
hammering out emotions
on the piano

an unparalleled appreciation
of birds

a four hour bike ride
to hawrelak park
on my birthday, you
waiting with a picnic
when we arrive, all
red in the face

then a car ride back
and you never telling anyone
i only made it one way

then dad marrying a woman
who would rather
push me down flights of stairs
than live with me and
your voice my megaphone

a hug at the hospital –
you used to be that nurse,
grandpa put your night gown
in his pocket and
went home with it

when you talk about it,
your eyes get teary and
the definition of love
stops shape shifting
in my peripheral vision

a bed of white,
medical but
consistent with your belief
in angels

 

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