Death Becomes Her

Scratch, scratch. I feel her hand soothingly on my back, in every corner of my life. Don your hat, wear your mittens, accept Jesus, treasure love, learn to iron, save room for desert, suck it up and move on my dear! Don’t be a slave, Lincoln freed them long ago! I hear her always. Grandma loves you. She is me and I her. Siamese souls in this life. My savior, my salvation. Hand in hand we shall always walk, whether on heaven or earth.

The velvet chair. The vacant look. Skin like ash. Lungs clawing for air. Just like AA before he left us. Machine gives body life, its rhythmic whir ticking as timebomb to funeral dirge. Oxygen tube snaking throughout the house once filled with laughter, life. Dead now, like the silk geraniums sun-faded on her porch. Stationary are her legs, stoic is her spirit, broken is her resolve. Sweet thoughts of afterlife. Joining her soldier once again. How will we live without her, those who bask in her light when flame fades to black? The time draws nigh, we ask, God answers.

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