Poems For Grandma

I've found writing really helps me to work through my emotions--it's therapy for the price of paper and ink.  These two poems are my attempt to record and work through what I felt as my Grandma Beth recently passed away and a poem as a tribute to her.

"The Day the Sisters Came" was written as I sat in a chair next to Grandmas as she slept after her first surgery.  This one has undergone several changes and this final draft is in a mosaic form.  I'm not sure why I had the distinct imagery of sisters here but I feel like it worked and it is a labor of love.

The Day the Sisters Came

1

Hope quietly stands outside the heavy hospital door,

Her sister, Fear, shoving past, elbows out,

forcing her way in,

surrounding us, breathing chill air

down our backs, as harsh words of reality

seep out the surgeon’s mouth:

ten percent chance…

she may not make it…

…never leave this hospital.

Prepare yourselves.

2

Hope softly tiptoes in, slipping her resilient hand into

my grandmother’s frail grasp.

Hope’s bright eyes glowing in the dimly lit room

giving voice to Grandma as she agrees to surgery.

Fear shoots dirty looks, sulking

in the corner, grumbling her discontent.

Hope nimbly climbs in beside Grandma on the long, still bed,

wearing a matching mint-green gown, covering

them both with cool, cream-colored sheets.

Hope holds to the IV as Grandma is rapidly

wheeled to the operating room.

Handing the surgeon his tools, Hope smiles brightly in the hustle

of travelling intestines, repairing bowels, mending tissues.

3

Her sister, Faith, waits with us in a quiet room,  

holding our trembling hands, she guides stiff fingers to

punch numbers on cell phones, whispering words

of comfort to loved ones across the country,

sending peace through orbiting satellites

in the night skies.  Fear waits for Faith to leave,

but we cling to Faith like a lifeline.

Finding our lost smiles, she stills our

racing hearts, breathing peace into our lungs.

4

An ordinary clock on the wall ticking a soft cadence

to our thoughts, we see Charity,  

walking in, her arm linked with the surgeon.

Sitting down with clasped hands,

compassion flowing out their eyes,

We did all we could…

three or four days at most

she won’t wake up

to say goodbye.

Charity and Faith guide us to ICU

where Grandma lays, supported by tubes,

delicate fingers sustaining life.

We are surprised to see Hope standing beside her,

Fear has fled now but Hope remains.

Grandma’s blue eyes flutter open, a smile

spilling out the sides of the oxygen mask.

5

            Six days passed,

enough time for everyone to whisper

            goodbye, to kiss her check, smooth soft gray

            curls from her brow, filling her room

            with only a portion of the love she showed us. 

While Hope slowly walked out of the door,

Faith and Charity

            held a vigil at Grandma’s side, never leaving

            until the last breath.

This next one is less about poetic elements and more about my Grandma.  She was a talented quilter and I thought about what her quilt would have looked like had she stitched-in the events of her remarkable life. 

Grandma’s Quilt

Sunlight washes Grandma’s hands

as laboring, she surveys her quilt.

Weaving in smoky-green thread,

colors of sage scattered across the landscape of

Emery County, she smiles as she thinks of

Ferron, Utah where she was raised.  Adding

four blocks for her sisters, one for her brother, she places

a block ripe with lemon-color, love and sunshine

throughout the middle for her parents.

Stitching bright red apples, she remembers years

dedicated to cultivating young minds.  Eyes narrowing,

she cannot help but search for remnants of chalk dust,

laughter of children echoing in the distance.

A delicate pink block fits between apples as do

four bold, blue squares.  Her five beloved

children, magpies and music drifting in and out of their

years together.

She sews a broken heart with sorrowful gray strands,

tears streaking through the years of fractured love, struggles of

single motherhood before social acceptance. A solitary figure

appears in the center blocked in white by faith.  God carried

her through those times; just one pair of footsteps journey

through those difficult years.  The quilt feels moist from

soaking up tears of remembrance.

The quilt comes alive now as her nimble fingers weave in

bright rainbow colors shining for her grandchildren,

twenty-four unique individuals bound together

by threads of love.  Her heart sings at the joy she

feels seeing these little ones,

flocking to her in droves, the pleasure of a full quiver.

Basting in roses now, red stitching throughout, with

splashing stripers and sweet comfort, she remembers how

love unexpectedly found her in the autumn of her life. 

Bruce changed everything.

Golden rings and spires intertwine

binding her to him forever for the winter of her life

came without Bruce.  A soft smile settles on fine lines

around her mouth as she looks forward to their reunion.

Soon,

soon now.

Grandma stitches sandstone-colored threads

for Fredonia where she lived a quiet, joyful life,

her love stretching across to posterity far and near.

A dove is blocked in the quilt,

still and white,

signaling her journey

into the world of light and peace

yet to come.

Standing now,

shaking-out her finished quilt,

smiling with satisfaction at the

magnificent tapestry of her life. 

Tenderly folding her quilt,  

her legacy for the ones

she loves, she joyfully

slips out the door into eternity.