Cancer

Cancer

The day my grandma passed
her styrofoam cup to me
filled with untouched water,
she smiled - I was her whole world.

I slipped my fingers under hers
and held her hand tight,
like how she held her daily pills,
necessary but hard to swallow.

I placed my other hand under her head,
supporting it just above the neck,
how she held me
when I was the baby.

In a moment, her breathing shifted,
ever-so-gently.
I could taste bland tears,
felt them drop and dampen my shirt,
but I never made a sound,
never moved a muscle.

And in that moment, she passed
her other hand over mine,
as her final breath was taken away,
leaving me behind
with just her body,
and her old-fashioned jewelry,
and a pair of slippers.

~Fall 2008