Prisms encased bare branches.
Tiny rainbows refracted on the asphalt.
Glass trees
and the golden pink sky
flying by.
You left.
You left me with the sun.
Then it left me too
so I fell as darkness fell.
My hands folded on my chest,
my body straight,
in the casket of my bed, veiled
with warm covers, I slept.
Rapid eyes reconstructed the sun,
painting on my eyelids.
Soft shaded grass beneath my soles,
from the shadow of my house,
That eclipsed the setting sun.
I made my way next door,
with bare feet, lead by my shadow.
I felt your presence.
Gran,
I felt your ghost in my dream.
You sat inside the kitchen,
center, by the table
looking adoringly at the family.
Everyone was laughing and talking.
They seemed to glow around you.
Mom tended to all the guests,
while my aunt made coffee.
There was little food,
little physical evidence of celebration.
Just the smell
of the bitter black beverage percolating,
and kids like firefly
lights, appearing and disappearing
from view as they played
between our legs.
I didn’t know how to say “bye” then,
with your frail chest heaving
and plastic tubes tangled around you.
Silence griped my throat
strangling my “Goodbye,
Gran”.
But, now, you were at the kitchen table,
from unknown horizons,
hugging me,
to give back the time
to speak more loudly without words
what I couldn’t before.
You waited till I had let you go
before making your rounds
to end the last farewell.
I followed you out
as you made your way through the garage
heading west past the blue stones
and the wall of evergreen.
I stopped you before you left the shade
into the golden pink light,
that fiery light,
and gave you another long hug,
and a kiss to take with you
as you evaporated in the glare.
You left as you did before,
Gran,
with the sun.
A dusty beam of light peeked
through a crack in the blinds
waking me;
my cheeks stuck to the wet pillow.
Gran, you always had a way of reminding me to wash my sheets.