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 and coiled around
The inner workings of her mind, though

She didn’t have much to say.

Or did she.

There may have been no boisterous love,
No fierce hugs or tender kisses that would neon sign a familiar
Or familial relationship.
But there were quiet dinners, with clink of fork on plate tapping it out,
And an array of plates and baskets
Painting artwork of her emotions 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.

Fingers fluttered
Eyebrows lifted,

Eyes penetrated

Her words hit places, corners,
Curves and softness you forgot you had.
Places she knew better than most
Because, perhaps, 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 laughter
With the barest word.
She could move mountains
With the pat of her hand,
With the “woo‐hoo” call of a woman found.

But then in a moment,
In the briefest pulse of 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,

All that remains is the soft, breathless movement of her soul.