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