I read the writing,
30 years old, or older.
My Grandmother wrote,
left handed,
after a stroke.
Funny how,
it read just like
mine.
Now, what was written,
was a copy.
But 5 pages deep,
I was deeply
impressed.
What a woman.
Pictures only show
me who you used to be.
Your husband used
to call me his girlfriend,
even on his deathbed.

I wanted to quit smoking,
in honor of you.
I cried a bit
at the library,
and just for an hour
I was taken away.

To touch the same paper
you put your pen to,
it truly was an honor.

Reality hits,
your daughter is
here, to collect me.
Because that is all
I am.
It's rough,
it bites,
it truly ***** me
dry.

And when I look at your
pretty pill bottle,
and try to make sense
of a cancer that made you
ill, how to glorify
a gust of sickly
pills, I am confused
by the nurse,
the doctor,
the pastor,
the preacher,
the passer-by
and the master.

I wish your subtle
messages could
be a bit more clear.
I'm confused by the
new neighbors,
and saddened to see
myself to be just so
naive. Some tell me
that I'm 20,
a birthday tells me
I'm 19.
Who bears the truth,
the truth within,
is you.
So please,
come out and say
hello, born to die,
don't you hide,
my hair is growing
old lengths once
again-
it's a sign.