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Come to see you, to talk,

to show I care. I'll bring you a pillow

or the phone when you need it,

help you get to the bathroom,

but mostly spend time. Chat. Yes,

I love what I'm doing. I'll be done

with my degree in three more years.

Does the morphine patch help the pain?

Is it time for your next pill?

Swallow my family obligation with a smile.

You laugh about the tumors, casually,

you'd look so brave

to someone who didn't know this was part of your martyr act.

Each time I visit,

it is important to steer clear of controversial issues.

Your heart is bad, and all.

I smile and get cautious when the topic of the hated boyfriend

accidentally comes up.

Yes, I miss him, living so far away.

Are you in love? You ask me,

almost shocked,

as if you just found out I strip for a living.

Well, yes, Grandma, I've been with him for three years.

Three years, she says. Has it been that long?

Yep. My smile pasted on.

Are you sure you don't want

anything else to eat?

Remember, Grandma, when you thought I was crazy?

Remember screaming that conviction over and over?

I was twelve, or was I eleven? I don't know,

my memory is almost as bad as yours.

You knew, didn't you, that I was a danger

to the family,

you almost convinced mom I should be committed.

You had her lying awake in fear each night that I might come in with a knife.

Maybe I was thirteen.

My mother and aunts mourn

and weep around, every day they think

will be your last, but I know

that you'll hang on with your fingernails, long after the last bit

of awareness washes away.

Mom doesn't remember anymore how you

made her feel bad every day, part of the morning

ritual when she\'d drop us off at your house before work.

She doesn't remember how in her adolescence

you always told her she was ugly.

Grandma was always so loving and caring, mom says,

like she's rehearsing for the funeral.

All she ever wanted

was the best for her children and grandchildren.

Until I remind mom

of the argument with Grandma in junior high

about whether I had any friends; I said I did.

Well, said Grandma,

I don't see them banging down the door to see you.

She used to say things like that to me, too,

mom says, her face changing from maudlin to thoughtful.

Grandma,

Every time I am in town

I promise I'll come to see you.

It is my duty.

I can say that I tried to love you, in adulthood,

I tried to forgive wrongs that you

still don't believe that you made,

and soon won't understand or remember.

I'll be there watching

when you die without apologizing.

tasha: Wow. Thank you so much for sharing this. This is _very_ similar to how I feel about one of my grandmothers. laura: I'd like to see this in prose. Flashbacks? Not sure. mwirth: I started it out in prose, but then converted it. I couldn't make up my mind, though. I see that the flashback might not work. Why do you think so, though? eppy: I like this a lot, but looking back over my line-specific comments I guess I was giving those with a specific vision of how the lines were being delivered. I kind of saw the speaker hunching over the grandmother while she was sleeping, and whispering these lines, but I wanted her to be a little more restrained in her comments, since so much of what the poem is about is how no one ever seems to be able to say these things to the grandma, especially now. So it might be better (artistically, if not personally) if there were more glimpses through otherwise polite language of the harsh feelings the speaker has. laura: I was thinking prose could flesh it out more strongly, and flashbacks within prose might retain some of the rawness. I like the look back in this, but present and past fuzz into each other right now. mwirth: I had thought of putting stanza 3 in italics, but it seemed too melodramatic. Maybe I could indent it. laura: dude, I was totally thinking italics. cgroom: Wow. I can offer nothing to add or subtract from this. It's direct, honest, and well-presented. It made me think of how, so often, Family is an autopilot concept. You care for your Family, Grandmother Was Loving, and other truths both propel us, keep us together, and drive us mad. I like the namelessness of Grandma here; she's both the concept and the person. tom: What Chuck said. In fact, I tend to think that it's pretty good the way it is, without some of the proposed edits. I guess it all depends on how you read it--I imagined the speaker thinking it, not saying it out loud. j_moody: as usual, I have a yearning for some "transformative" material. I wonder if there isn't something else that could be added to this, something more dynamic in the perspective that hints at or allows for a different perspective, a way out of the dire tone that imbues the rest of the language. NOT a 'happy ending', but an added dimension that frees the narrator from the emotional trap that her embittered grandma and self-deluded mother set for her-- an element of transcendence that reaffirms whatever the narrator finds most valuable in her life. It could be as simple as a moment of elation amid the mundane, as heavy-handed as an epiphany, as subtle as an opening into a shift into perception, as vehement as catharsis, as discomforting as overwhelming physical presence of pain, as numb as an abscence of beauty and loss of meaning-- but something that makes the narrator active in this drama. At this point it is apt observation, but there is a passivity in the observation. I wonder where the narrator could feel this experience taking her? if new aspects of herself are crystallizing or if old pieces of armor are falling away, revealing neglected potential. That kind of stuff. But there's no reason why any of this needs to be explored unless YOU think it would add to what you're saying. That said, I was mesmerized by the scene you described. I once tried to write a ditty that included the line "Grandma is a gun. Grandma is a gun to your head sayin' you'd feel better off dead, wouldn't you son? Grandma is a gun." I love my Grandma and honor her memory but feel surprisingly guiltless to be relieved that her time has come and gone. Many of us have similar conflicts, I'm sure. mwirth: Thanks, everyone, for your comments. If I do rework this piece, I will use your suggestions. Joel, interesting that you talk about epiphany/change of perspective. The grandma in question actually died a week ago (2/14), and I found that all the anger and resentment that fueled writing this poem kind of dissolved. I guess there was no point in holding a grudge anymore, to a person who no longer existed (or, if she did, in a very different state of being.) I felt sort of freed. It wasn't what I was expecting to happen at all. So there was a change in perspective- however, I feel like it would be impossible to incorporate that into this poem- if anything, it could spark a new poem. j_moody: New poem! yes!! Add comment