This Tuesday’s Poem vol 4

It is early in the morning in my grandmother’s apartment
I’ve woken up here a thousand times before
the light is familiar
a familiar stranger

I forget my dog is not here and will not jump up onto this bed
so I rise as quietly as I can
and walk the short hallway
to the bathroom
my slightly sweaty feet make an almost slurping suction sound
as I lift each step off the parquet floor
I had forgotten this sound

slurp

slurp

slurp

slurp

as I pad

down

the

hall

as a child I used to ride a tricycle
from the kitchen
to the front door
this apartment went on forever
now it seems like less than five slurps

I pause at my grandmother’s open bedroom door
I hold my breath
and listen for hers
just to make sure I know she is breathing
she lets out a loud snore
my heart clutches

she is still alive
she has
for now
decided to keep living

she, like her home, has shrunk
she seems to be shrinking every time I see her
her voice on the phone is constant
but her body diminishing
as if it is readying to go
shrinking into itself until she disappears

standing at her door
I am overwhelmed with pre grief
I know it is not long now
I know she is not afraid
I know she is ready to go

and I tell myself I am ready to let her
It is both a lie and not a lie
there in the hallway of her home
I remember
that this place
this woman
this woman and this place
are/were/are/still are and were
my safest place
my first home

I was once an egg in my mother who was a fetus in her womb
she told me often
how she wished for me
how she wanted me

I didn’t know it

But I wished for her, too