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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.