My grandmother passed too early
Cancer
And my mom went to get checked
I think about her death too often

How can I live motherless like her
With no mother to coax me through

I imagine my head in a lap
My hair being stroked, only,
It’s not her, It’s Amelia Earhart
And she’s singing to me about journeys and daughters
I imagine the grieving, days of just sitting
And then one day getting up to paint the
whole house blue

It starts with a room
With the extra paint in the attic
Amelia’s not freaked
She sits on the couch eating an apple
And I scrub the walls
With coat after coat of briny breeze

The funeral is hell
My father would want a closed casket
And I’d just imagine her in there
Hands still warm

I’d want someone, and Amelia would stand next to me
Still in her suede flying jacket and goggles
She’d squeeze my hand and whisper
She’s lucky.
Or something like that