I remember Grandma DeKezel,

            her colostomy bag full and oozing.

I remember smiling and chattering

            and easing her discomfort

            of being dependent upon my hands.

I remember her talk of sex

            and the loathing she had when Grandpa

            would touch her – until she was 30.

I remember the smile sliding across her face

            the twinkle in her eyes

            as she yearned for Grandpa then.

            Sex was not a sin.

I remember her finger pointing at the cabinet

            “Take the white China with the yellow flowers.

             Count it all and be sure it’s there.”

And I remember nodding no,

            “Keep it until next time I am here.”

I remember the silent, arguing stares

           over disappearing treasures

           before she was laid to rest.

I remember the harsh words zinging overhead

            because her children didn’t finish unfinished words

            in the space of her ensuing death.

I remember the chasm created

            in the wake of her death.

I remember thinking

            “They lost the chance to know their mother

             in the grace of ensuing death.”

            “They lost the chance for her to speak unspoken words

              that could not be said.”

 

My memory will never forget

            knowing my grandma