It’s in the beeswax candle
that burns
on the kitchen table
next to half empty cups of stale coffee.
It’s in the pure oxygen
that pumps
in and out of her weakened heart.
I can hear it in Judy Garland’s velvet voice
singing her to sleep
in the background.
I feel it in her goodbye grip.
I can see it in her relieved eyes,
her dropped jaw.

My Grandmother owned two bells
and she used them to be heard,
to amplify her aging voice.

The first was black iron
on a post out back.
She pulled on its rope from the porch
and it rang a hard thunder
that shook the land.
It rang to bring him home,
to feed him
leftover *** roast and potatoes from the garden

The second felt fragile
porcelain in the palm of the hand.
A sweet child cling
to ring
when she’s sick in bed.
He would come running with a tray
to feed her,
navy blue socks with holes
walking quickly on a linoleum floor.

It’s been two months and you are still giving me things.
This time I inherited your long tan coat.
The one you wore along with a plastic bag on your head
when it was raining.
The one that swooshed when your arms swung back and forth
while the long belt would drag
along the ground on one side.
The one nobody wanted.

I slid my arms into the sleeves
and felt the sleek fabric hug my skin,
unlike the way it hung
from your frail shoulder blades.
I slowly
reached my hands further
and further
into the deep pockets,
dreading that I’d find leftover food wrapped up in napkins-
and cried when it wasn’t there.