hands, holding.

a poem to my grandmother 🕊️

when i touched Ma Ma’s hand today, it felt different. i felt the wrinkles on her palm; the slow thrum of her pulse. old, weathered hands. somehow, Death makes me want to write poetry. as though flowery language will help take some of the sting out of it. the sheer permanence of it— regret, rolling hot and sticky on my tongue. could i have done more? should i have? it’s all too late now, if anything’s to be said about the milky white of her irises. unseeing, unseen. one foot fully on the other side now. it is only a matter of time, and time is the greatest teacher. i sit patiently waiting for the seconds to tick by. there is truly nothing like holding someone’s hand for the last time. the warm, scratchy, leathery feel of it. how much of it is artificial? how much of it is Her? the same hands that touched me, soothed me, hugged me, brought me into this world. that carried me from when i was an infant to the big, bumbling, crybaby mess i still am. Death is the greatest teacher. nothing is quite as sobering, that reminds you to be as present, that teaches you to show up, just show up, for the love of god please just SHOW UP, because that’s all that matters, in the end. you, stroking the palm of her hand until eternity. as though it will reveal all the secrets of the universe. as if it could prevent

what

happens

next.

// 🕊️

my grandmother is dying, and all i can write is poetry. thank you for being here. 💘

update: she passed away peacefully this morning. my hand was the last thing she ever held. may her soul rest in eternal peace.