Two months ago my grandma's spirit
Started leaving her body
She hadn't passed yet but
She had no use for this realm anymore
I wondered where spirits go
And who would tell me I'm wonderful
And beautiful and perfect
Once she was gone
Two months ago my mother and I
Planted morning glories
On our old rusted lightpost
"They never grow for me," she said
"Every year I try and they just never latch on, never grow how they're supposed to"
She glanced at me as if she wasn't talking about flowers anymore
"If they bloom I will kiss you with joy"
Nearly always, I do not feel wonderful
Or beautiful or perfect
But as time passed and I questioned
Why we all try
Just to suffer and die
In your home, in your hell
After twenty, thirty, or eighty years
I realized that the vines had taken over the post, had overgrown the broken lightbulb
The twisted vines full of buds
Had reached over 7 feet
My grandma's hands could grow any flower on this planet
But she was not a flower
She was not delicate
She did not need to be coddled
She is the weeds that you yank out every weekend just to grow back
She is a mighty cactus in Arizona
She is the morning glories in my front lawn,
Living by the earth instead of it's seasons
She could have been a redwood
Or a rare plant, remotely in Tahiti
Protected, strong, beautiful
She is the morning glories on my front lawn to remind me
"So can you"
Aug 10, 2017
Aug 10, 2017 at 3:09 PM UTC
Two months ago my grandma's spirit
Started leaving her body
She hadn't passed yet but
She had no use for this realm anymore
I wondered where spirits go
And who would tell me I'm wonderful
And beautiful and perfect
Once she was gone
Two months ago my mother and I
Planted morning glories
On our old rusted lightpost
"They never grow for me," she said
"Every year I try and they just never latch on, never grow how they're supposed to"
She glanced at me as if she wasn't talking about flowers anymore
"If they bloom I will kiss you with joy"
Nearly always, I do not feel wonderful
Or beautiful or perfect
But as time passed and I questioned
Why we all try
Just to suffer and die
In your home, in your hell
After twenty, thirty, or eighty years
I realized that the vines had taken over the post, had overgrown the broken lightbulb
The twisted vines full of buds
Had reached over 7 feet
My grandma's hands could grow any flower on this planet
But she was not a flower
She was not delicate
She did not need to be coddled
She is the weeds that you yank out every weekend just to grow back
She is a mighty cactus in Arizona
She is the morning glories in my front lawn,
Living by the earth instead of it's seasons
She could have been a redwood
Or a rare plant, remotely in Tahiti
Protected, strong, beautiful
She is the morning glories on my front lawn to remind me
"So can you"
3/9/1931-7/28/2017