The Ninth of April

The ninth of April.
That was the last time I saw her.
There were hugs, “Thank you for coming’s,”
And “it’s really no bother’s.”
I hugged my grandmother for some time,
With tears welling up in her Bambi eyes,
“She’s leaving us,” she said.
“She’s going to die.”
“How are you holding up?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” she lies.
My grandmother’s been guarding her gate for quite some time,
She’s been a caretaker most of her life.
So I’m not sure she’ll be alright.
“Do you want to see her?”
“Of course I do.”
The carpet on the floor never looked so blue.
The hallway was dark on the way to her room.
The door was halfway open, but I couldn't move.
I’ve seen this before- what the disease can do.
I fixed myself, opened the door, and pushed through
through a myriad of “are you okay’s?”
And a plethora of “I’ve had better days”
I finally made it to the edge of her bed
Expecting to see a picture of death.
Hospice kept her comfortably asleep
She could listen, but she couldn’t speak.
(she was actually living my greatest fear:
Having so much to say, but no way for anyone to hear.)
She was not pale, she was not broken;
And she talked to me with words unspoken.
She was youthful, her sageness was timeless,
Like the legacy she left.
The respirator whirred
As the dementia stirred
And memories of her and I
When I was a child came to me.
Sitting in her lap, feeding me teaspoons of coffee
And though I was too young to drink caffeine,
She did it anyway, because she wanted to include me.
She was so bright and alive-
Back when her limbs thrived
I remember her telling me she sold her car
But it was really because
She was no longer able to drive.
I remember her house across the bridge
In the city
I remember the musty smell, the summer breeze
Old radiators on the walls, black and white TVs
But then she had the fall
And so she moved out of Metairie.
She moved in with my grandma
Never to move back.
Playing games of Rummy, Liverpool, and Jacks
Her old Cafe Du Monde cup
Adorned with porcelain cracks
She used to knit-
Afghans, things like that-
But she had to stop when her joints went bad
She started repeating her stories,
Changing and blending them all,
One day she called me “Chris” instead of Shawn.
And on April ninth I stood my hand on her shoulder
And I saw my reflection,
And I noticed how I am getting older-
Thinking about how time moves like a boulder,
You try to outrun it, but it just runs you over.
Before I left, I kissed her forehead and said
“I love you, G.G.”
And then through the Ativan and Morphine
She opened her eyes and turned to me
She couldn't move her lips, but she spoke through her teeth;
And I know what she was trying to do
With cloudy eyes she said
“I love you, too.”
That hits me at my heart,
Because I’m gonna miss that old fart-
And I wonder if She’d miss me-
She’s still the same woman she used to be:
Still feeding you life in teaspoons of coffee-
Still watching Tom and Jerry-
Still seeing the world on a black and white TV-
And though the doctors said she’s on borrowed time-
I have a feeling I’ll be alright.
All because of April ninth,
When I told her “I love you”
And she plundered through the thorns of her mind and said
“I love you, too.”