Today I thought of how

closely my hands resemble my grandmother’s,

and of how hers looked in the coffin.

At the funeral,

I was asked to take pictures for my uncle,

and I’m not going to say that it was my proudest moment

to witness the side-eye glances of black-clad neighbors

and still have to hear the click and see the flash

to forever-remember the floral arrangements

and the way my grandmother’s hands looked.

Why my uncle couldn’t operate

a disposable camera himself

was something I didn’t ask, and so

for hours I perched on ripped heels in a cemetary

clicking and flashing and thinking that

the obituary should have contained the footnote

that cemetaries are grass and pliable earth

so it’s best not to wear heels,

lest you sink in,

and join the best of them.