Another Narrative

She was the last I had left.

A second mother. My Grandmother.

I’d seen her two days before. It was a Thursday,

And I’d come to the hospital straight from college.

There was little time left… somewhere in my heart I knew it,

But my head did not want to recognize it. 

I skipped lunch. Just to see her.

I would have spent the hours dedicated to dinner too,

And the ones after, just to have more time.

Mom didn’t want me too. I had chores, homework.

So I went with my sister. My wonderful, lovely,

Fabulous sister, the second out of four. Ten years older.

The oldest had her own family now,

And the third was in college too—six hours away.

I did not want to leave, and I did not want her to go.

I remember my words exactly, every syllable.

The last from my lips to her ears.

“I love you, Gram. See you tomorrow.”

What I promised was a lie. I couldn’t go the next day.

School had my attention with assignments and homework.

She slipped into coma that night, and by the day after,

She was no longer with us. And that night,

I lay in bed, spilling silent tears into my pillow,

Careful not to let my family hear my heart shatter.

 “Time heals all wounds” is a cliché, a lie.

The pain is as fresh now as it was then.