Grandma Flo

On days like this
Where the sky is a wispy shade of gray
and the clouds can’t decide if they want to cry out loud or blow away to a warmer place
drizzle and drip down on us indifferently,

Where there are so few cars on the road
that when I walk my dog
I can hear the jingle of his little collar with each step,

Where most of the leaves have recently fallen from the trees
Fluttering to their silent, golden deaths
Leaving only a brave few clinging to withered branches,

On days like this,
where I sit alone in a coffee shop across town
Listening to classical music
And the conversation of two old men seated next to me,
Where I drink an Americano in my striped wool sweater that feels like home
And most baggy and unflattering, but most comfortable of jeans
I imagine that I am invisible to these people and lives swirling around me,

Because so often on days like this
I feel otherworldly
as I swaddle myself in thoughts of you.

Often in the fall, in the winter,
When it’s dark and cold outside like it is today,
When I daydream of tomato soup with grilled cheese in front of a fire somewhere,
I end up thinking of that cold December day I stood over your bed
And touched your stiff, bony hands
Your long fingernails; your swollen blue knuckles.
I remember it was raining so hard that day
That my socks were damp inside of my shoes
And my hair had begun to curl right along with the humidity.

I didn’t talk to you because
I didn’t know what to say
Other than to thank you for the years of
Of singing me Swedish lullabies while you played with my feet,
Of homemade pancakes and syrup, of pistachio pudding,
Of how my grandpa, your long lost partner in life, died on your birthday,
Of our shared fondness for crossword puzzles
Of your love affair with writing
Of our similarly fuzzy memories of anything past the moment we were in,
And of the rest of the quarter century of memories you and got to share.

But I didn’t say any of these things to you,
Rather I stood and looked at you in silence
Quietly thanking the universe for finally, at long last, letting you go.

And as I stood looking around at the small room of belongings that had become your life,
The clock radio, the map pinned to the wall, the diapers in the top dresser drawer, the bathrobe and slippers I got you one Christmas,
I wondered if deep inside somewhere
you were thinking about your two daughters who escaped life before you did
And I wondered if you were waiting for me to come visit you on that day
Since not an hour after I left
The phone call came over my chicken dinner, that you were gone.

I remember wondering why people who are dying have to look so ill
and I wish that I could have painted your fingernails one last time
because you always liked that
and I wanted you to feel pretty
as age had robbed you of your outer beauty so many years prior to that day...

And I still feel bad that little old me was one of the only two
Family members you had left to see you along your way out of this life.
And I hope you know now
That I still think of you,

That on quiet, gray days like this one,
you are a presence in my thoughts
And that sometimes, I can feel you so close by
that I realize that I am more like you than I ever thought I was
and that part of you, I think
is living inside of me.