I think of my grandma,
almost ninety-five,
watching the news in her house alone.
It's silly
to hope that another man might sweep Viola off her feet
like Clarence did when she was just eighteen.
When he died, she stayed
praying her rosary so that it might rain down on her flowers
and her garden that she tended to her entire life,
just like her children, and their children, and their children.

I visit her,
hoping she might live for another twenty years,
praying that life will go on, and if that fails,
that it might be buried
with flowers;
That it might rain.