Are you up there, Marian?
I don’t believe in heaven or hell
but I believe you’re in a parallel
universe that knows nothing of the conceit of death,
and in that universe, I got to know you
in the way that a grandson and grandmother should know each other.
All I have are the cigarettes, the agoraphobia, and your books,
ghosts and fantasies, the latter allowing you
to leave the little flat you lived in
the last time I saw you.

I see everyone talking about Thanksgiving,
how family is so important this time of year.
All coming together and talking into the night.
My mum said if you were alive today,
you’d be so proud of me, so proud of my writing,
and that you’d read every word I wrote
and you’d soak them up and feel every letter,
close your eyes at the cadence of the words,
the rhythms and the harmonics.
No one has ever said they were proud of me;
you’re the closest I have and you’re a dead stranger,
done away by the cigarettes
(ten years ago today)
that I now smoke in your honour.

I hope you find a way to read these words, Marian,
whether you can see this **** little poem of mine
from your everlasting parallel universe,
or if I’m wrong and you are here,
sitting on the edge of the bed beside me,
watching as my fingers conjure words on the screen like magic.

I love you, my beautiful stranger.
I miss you, grandmother gone.