The grief eater
When my grandfather died
I thought my world would end.
My grandmother, teary eyed
And shaky voiced, said to me
“You wished it was me
they laid in that casket, nuh true?”
I, eyes swollen and tongue heavy
from biting back words, let loose
“He should be here with me now
He should not be the one
Who wanders through these rooms
formless and untouchable.”
I did not wait to watch her tears fall;
I never thought she could cry.
She let a choke-sound escape
but she hit her chest twice
then swallowed loudly
and walked briskly away.
Years on years would fly by and
grief became a muted song
But my words to her would remain
gnawing at my tender heart.
When her memory began to fail,
I prayed my grief-spurned words
disappeared into the abyss like
the fact that the story she was
telling me was about the tenth
telling in half hour or less.
I spread “I love you” (and meant it) over our conversations, like a blanket.
I prayed she held those so close
That even in her now formless state
It warms her and reminds her
Of the little girl she loved so fiercely
that she attempted to take her grief
And hurt and swallow it whole.