seeing my grandmother cry herself to sleep
because she had to bury her lover 6 feet deep

a feeling that makes me cry myself
I never thought I'd have to feel
my poor grandmother feels so alone
I would do anything to help her heal

she wakes up each morning
completely in ignorant bliss
forgetting about the sobs in her sleep
without her husband's goodnight kiss

moving around keeps herself busy
drinking alcohol every night to make her dizzy

once the thoughts slow down
and her mind comes to relief
she must think about her deceased husband
crying in disbelief

she longs for connection
from the family who still lives
asking them to come around
before her heart gives

living through the days she tries so hard
but she struggles to visit his garden in the backyard

he still lives around their home
leaves his shoes by the front door
she will never be rid of him
her love for him lasting evermore

I wish I could help her
I think about her every day
and how my poor grandpa
never meant to make her feel this way

You have seen many moons,
and still the chariot sleeps,
and though many suns,
it’s sleep is ever sweet.

For it rises for the fading,
the weak and moribund of those,
yet being young at heart,
your soul is not yet old.

And even when it wakes,
to gather all its prey,
It passes swiftly by,
for it knows not your name.


Dara.

Come and whisper soft hello mother dear as you used to long ago mothers here it will  sooth my troubled breast it will allow me interest for all I love you best mother dear oh how long it seems tonight mother dear since I saw your face so bright hover near but I know I love you more while the years are passing more than I have ever before mother dear how are fancy or and or mother dear all the happy days of your with you near how are you murmured soft and low as you kissed my cheek a glow precious child I love you so mother dear so my grateful heart Shelby mother dear with a love Though incomplete ever hear and though far away tonight yet or spirits in their flight still my mingle with the light mother dear

my grandmother is dead and it is my fault
turns out the eating disorder doesn't just **** only you.
...
stressful.

As my brother and I drove away from my grandmother’s funeral he asked me if maybe grandpa called her “Anne” instead of “grandma” was because he didn’t remember who we were.

I think I’ve cried more about Hannah than I did at my grandma’s funeral. Which is kinda ****** up cause Hannah isn’t dead she just doesn’t want to date me anymore.

So I feel like kind of an *******.
I’m kind of an *******.

Hannah’s not her real name.

I have this blanket. On my bed. My grandma crocheted it for me – to give to me on my wedding day.

I’m not married.  
You could probably guess that.

And my grandma is dead now.
You could probably guess that too.

The blanket sleeps on my bed.
My bed sleeps in my memories of
where Hannah used to lay.
Soft slumber and figures puzzling together in the warm darkness – thick with breath
The blanket following the soft curves of her body and now I’m thinking of my naked ex and dead grandma in the same sentence and we should change the subject.

My grandparents slept in separate beds and I always thought that was weird.
Grandma was like peanut butter on homemade bread
The fancy peanut butter. Not that Jiffy crap.

It was the bread that made the difference.
give a loaf of it to each family for Christmas
My cousin got the recipe but she doesn’t make it right.

We made ramen once. Hannah and I, not me and my grandma. We didn’t use a recipe and the eggs made her sick.

I had a cold when I hugged my grandma and I fear it made her sick.

She died two days later.

Grandma once said you’re never too old to hug your grandparents.

my brother does this thing where he siphons the stories from someone. Usually old people because they have the best stories

I drive through the old homestead – the fog of my emotions

Have of my memories

My father does this thing where he holds his little hands at his waist, twisting them inside one another

We are three generations eating dominoes pizza

Defined by death and divorce – not there and not existing yet
My grandfather is 90. He is stories made flesh and my brother pulls at them like a rope from a,

Well,

Because he has discovered the census data for Ham Lake from 1940

My grandfather tells stories of the missing generation

His father – can’t work because he’s a welfare brat

His mother died young

Stepmother an angel – gave him socks when his father was crying because they cut him off

My father – tells underbreath mumbles of lost arguments and lost respect – he gives me socks for Christmas

Father drank a lot. You get to pick who I’m talking about. Maybe alcoholism skips a generation. If so I fear for my children.

Grandpa joined the navy. His father got a job – everyday worked it through sickness and in health – a marriage of money and mind because the paycheck meant freedom and freedom meant everything

He finds his dad at work – navy uniform coated in the expectations of his brothers.

“So you went and did it.”

The story kind of trails off there, the way old people stories do. Kind of like young person poems

I helped my dad set up the TV we got him for Christmas

Because he never used the guitar center gift card from last year.

I pull up to the house and don't recognize any of the vehicles. My mom is driving her new car she got after the accident she didn't tell me about because we don't speak as much as we used to.

It's the middle of the day and yet it's as if a darkness has worked its way between the walls of the home. There is one light. A motion light. Crunching steps activate it above the door. I am illuminated. The doghouse next to me is my reflection. Dark. Empty. Folding in on itself like a sheet. I enter and the house exhales a shallow, broken breath. Like a house of cards falling down. Like something is missing.

Obviously that something would be my dead grandparents.

My mother's voice greets me and I'm startled. The tone sounds awful cheery for someone who, as of 15 hours ago, doesn't have parents anymore. Exhale.

The house is the same as I remember. I was here last week for ***** sake. Here to watch my grandma. She never liked to be home alone after she got back from the hospital.
After part of her got back from the hospital.
After the hospital.
She was never the same after that. Only the same conversation with a skipping record.
Eat carrots to avoid ****** noses. (Yes grandma.)
You should move to Hollywood. (I'm not that good of an actor grandma.)
Your other grandma hates me. (She doesn't hate you grandma.)

We don't talk as much as we used to.
We didn't talk as much as we used to.
It's death in two parts.

We're in grandma's room now. Sheets are being folded. There's a coffee ring in a half drunk cup of coffee. She'll never finish it now.
Exhale.

An innocent question (Did you find her in the bed?) Opens a wound with turns into a story which bleeds into a card game where we used to have Thanksgiving dinner because my mothers eyes are cracking floodgates and she needs time to repair them before she drives home.
She lives alone.
And we don't talk as much as we used to.
Silence.
The sound of cards slapping a table.
My mother says that talking about what happened has helped her and her voice sounds like someone who as of 18 hours ago, doesn't have parents anymore.
Exhale.

I leave the house and it's.
Still. Dark. Black.
Every light is off. Even the dog is dead.

I leave the house and it's
empty inside. This time I don't mean metaphorically, I mean physically actually devoid of people, and I don't think this feat has happened in 35 years.

There's one light.
Motion light.
It turns on when I leave,
and then it never turns on again.