N E Waters Jan 2016
There's only so much smell left in your powder box
I can tell.  I
only open it every once in a while,
to feel like a child
and hear your chuckle and smell
you were.

I didn't weep at your slipping away.
I could see your pain
I could hear it screaming under
your skin, your pride burning
your age raging inside you, I
watched you crumble and I blinked, I
looked away.
I didn't want you to have to feel your pain.

But you live with me here.
In an old box you don't remember that I have,
out of all the countless
shiny things you gave to me, this is the thing
I keep with me.

Your trash.
Your old powder box.

I open it from time to time and I smell you and I hear you rumble
and I see you
lipstick and hair and bright poofy hairbands.

Every time I open up your box it smells a little less like you.

I didn't fear your going because I knew that it was time
but I rue already the day when I might think on you
and not be able to find you.

When your powder box will just be a box.
Instead of the place I keep you inside.
KAE Jun 9
I don’t remember exactly what day it was.
It was a weekday, the only thing that I remembered.
The day you left.
There was grief, sadness, pain and suffering.
Those feelings reigned in the living room of my house.
Tears were running down my cheeks from my reddened eyes.
Your soul wandered through the apartment.
Your smell, impregnated inside my nose.
Take years to accept your death.
My memories of you were all sad, even the happiest.
Today, what I cried in the past, became happy moments and smiles.

In memory of my Grandmother.
Vexren4000 Jun 1
Grandmothers cooking,
Chili and cookies,
breakfast and lunch,
What great cooking skill comes,
From years of earnest practice.

Pinal May 31
My grandmother gave me a ring
It was a birthday gift, for my sixteenth.
The band is golden
And slightly too big for my ring finger
So I wear it on my index finger instead.
The ring is beautiful, really
It has a small butterfly on it
And it’s upper half is made of gems
They appear to be small, clear diamonds
That twinkle in the sunlight
Although I’m not sure if they’re real.
Not that it matters, honestly.
All that matters, is that

My grandmother gave me a ring
It was a birthday gift for my sixteenth.
It shined as bright as she did
And was as golden as the love she raised me with.
When she slid the ring on my finger,
I didn’t look at the ring.
I looked at her face, her wrinkles, and her eyes
Mostly, though, I looked at her smile.
She looked so happy.

My grandmother gave me a ring
It was a birthday gift for my sixteenth.
And that ring will always remind me
Of the mental image I saved of the day
My grandmother smiled so genuinely
And the love she showered me with.
My grandmother is still alive, but in that moment, I got so scared of the day that would surely come—the day I have to live the rest of my life without her. But she gave me this beautiful ring, so I will always be close to her. I don’t feel as scared anymore.
Isla May 23
I'm still glowing
with the light
you instilled

a single flame in my heart
the hollow that remains
where you used to be

wavering at times
but never ceasing
though the world threatens to snuff it out

and though you are gone
I still glow
for my grandma, who passed away when I was pretty young. Only now do I know the importance of what she was trying to teach me.
Frances Rose May 13
This blue, worn box is all I have left
Everything you once were compressed in a small chest
Your heavenly soul is reduced to a box
Your memory locked up like Fort Knox
Look what I have lost
Now when I think of you, I cannot remember your beauty
I can only you crying while your body ate itself
Look what I lost
A Mother's love is like no other
A locked box without key
c Mar 26
There's no way to do you justice

To quantify time in learning as I grew
sprouting from rich soil
at your hand

You are all violet & chamomile,
which you do not like but
I think of you each time
I steep its leaves

In youth I was questioned & prodded
Other children finding comedy in the
absence of mother &
the presence of you

In youth I grew shameful of time spent
bent over puzzles & mystery novels
Spent so much time apologizing
To those I thought knew better and
Pocketed my love for you

I am sorry for hesitating
For tabling the thought that maybe
This crazy was my normal, but
You are my normal
I couldn’t ask for a better reason
To leave the party
For another cup of tea

Grew up with my grandparents. Had my parents around but my grandma was like a mom for the better part of my childhood. Trying to explain these feelings was a challenge. I hope to write more into this.
em May 2
And still my aunt speaks to her of roses and the weather
Of “Can’t you believe it, it’s October and it’s so hot! Look, it’s good for the roses, see how big they’ve gotten.”
And my mother holds her hand,
Which holds inside of it ninety-two years,
Fifty of which she has given to my mother,
The last of which she is spending in this fishbowl world where her Hands
hold on to loose thread, grab at hair falling in her face, adjust the Glasses sliding down her nose
Always moving so slow, like through water.
My mom reaches to move the hair from my grandmother’s face
And I see myself forty years in the future, sitting in my mother’s Place after my grandmother is long gone,
Tucking stray strands behind her ear,
Having the same nonconversations,
And I grab her hand now, and between us is fifty years, nineteen of Which were given to me,
And my grandmother cannot speak, but we still speak to her of the Roses.
For Eva
Elicia Hurst Apr 14
Decade and a half ago,
The world still fresh and new,
Good and kind. Air - not what we choked on
Your ray of light flickered
In my careless recollection
Of course, that was once upon a time.

When volumes of infusion is the blood in your veins,
And scenes change day by day, curtains drawn,
You are at the end of the line, spent, and you're
Holding up yours hands in the air, no defiance.
There is sadness in your eyes, even when you smile
"The war is not won." I said.

Bitter taste of medicine
Lingers like diseases on your tongue.
"To be or not to be"
Is a statement, not
A question, not a
Matter of choice.

Excruciation, or maybe hell, in the purest form
Perpetual realization of pain
Of the crystal mind in storm,
Peeling the psyche of it, driving it off to the edge.
But do people still go to hell
When their lives are sheer suffering
Through and through?
Sept 2014
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