The Things She Leaves

(I know. It’s not a blog post. But I doubt I will have the chance to share this with anyone any where else, and my Grandmother deserves to be loved and remembered just as all of us do. So bear with me while I just write.)

Before, there was a stillness about her… even in motion.
A type of timeless energy wrapped, coiled around
The inner workings of her mind, though

She didn’t have much to say.

Or perhaps she did.

There may not have been boisterous love,
No fierce hugs or tender kisses that would neon sign a familiar
Or familial relationship.
But there were quiet dinners, the clink of fork on plate tapping it out,
The array of plates and baskets
An artwork of her emotion toward us all.
There were softened days when the constant tick of the mantle clock
Beat a timely heart song along with

The shush and shuffle of her movement through the rooms.

But there was love. Always.

Before and after.
There was love.

After, there was motion,
Even in the stillness.
Her fingers fluttered
Her eyes penetrated
Her words hit the places, the corners,
The curves and softness you forgot you had.
The places she knew better than most
Because she had those places, too.

After, there was a pouring out
Of emotion
Of sweetness
Of understanding
That life was short and important
And love
Was so important.

She could move you to tears
Or to laughter
With barely a word.
She could move mountains
With the pat of her hand,
With the “woo‐hoo” call of a woman found.

Or finding.

Because it seemed, she was always finding,

Or at least searching
For something that she knew hovered
Just inside the person she spoke to.

And then in a moment,
In a lifetime,
She was gone.
A swirl of perfect biscuits,
Perfect pound cakes,
Perfectly flawed perfections
That you didn’t know you’d miss so much
Until they disappeared
Into the stillness.

Even in motion, she was still.
And now in stillness,

The movement of her soul

Sings love.