Part 1: The Question
It is October,
the veil is thin
the year is waning
the leaves are turning
I am trying to say goodbye
to my grandmother
she is dying.
I do not know what to say.
The leaves are red
the sky is blue
I saw a crow in the tree
behind the house.
The threads of this year
are becoming thinner.
The threads of her life too
are becoming thinner
What do I say to the one
who breathed life into my father
who wove his cells into being
who cradled him as a baby
who wept into his hair.
Carrying the cells
of the generations
The chain of life
continuing to spiral
through time, and place,
and distance
and falling leaves.
What do I say as life thins,
as breath fades
What do I say
when all that remains
is the space between us
What do I say
when I catch a glimpse
of the swift unraveling of time
the wrinkles in eternity
What do I say
as time folds in on itself
and now it is me in the bed
and my son, gray-haired, blue-eyed
is reading to me in a quiet voice
as the chapter comes to a close.
Part 2: The Answer
That night,
I dreamed of my grandmother
she shrank to the size of a small child
I picked her up and held her against my body
We looked in the mirror cheek to cheek
and smiled together
I kissed her face and told her:
“You are wonderful.”
Then we danced around the room together
her head against my shoulder
I kissed her again on her white hair
and no more words were needed.
—
(Postscript: I did go back to see her one more time, the same day she died, and I used my dream to guide me in what to say that time)