The Last Visit And Conversion…

Here lies- my grandmother- weak and tired, nearing her death. The archetypal grandmother who soothed all manner of nursery cries? Who made everything so much better? Here lies- my grandmother- weak, drained, approaching her final breath in that last week of heinous lies spoken in strictly sweet 'hellos, ' not in those sad, departing, closing 'goodbyes.' Valedictions, farewells before, the cloak of her life- lifts and falls silently bereft. Closes like a child's ballerina music box in her last wheezed, surrendered, dying breaths. In hopes-prayer in hopes coiled never-fading-ending. In words that were formed all too cold and informal. Like crusts of stale bread. Floated in the mouths of the living, where it has been faithfully said that our increments will also rise- conversely, against all natural logic. And speak from our deathbeds. 'Will not every one of us one day, converse with the dead.' Here lies- my grandmother and to bring you up to date, she is now dead, deceased. Conversely, against our present state of mind but not this individual, not my heart or my will. I'll open a ballerina music box and hear her sing once more. I'll see her again in this life or the next, all logic denied. Of that, my dear friends, I am not just nostalgically sure.