My Poetry of Loss and Life

I’ve been photographed many times. I’m not sure my grandmother would say the same. One of the last meaningful conversations I had with her—at 104 years old—was about how life moves through so many stages of change. I knew she was talking about technology.

There’s something profoundly painful about witnessing the decline of someone you love. We often see it coming, yet still deny it. Until the day the medics arrive.
My family gathered, through the screen of my phone.
I’m not sure why I called. I don’t usually call midday. Elise said she’d call me back. She did.
Leo waved at me as Elise swung the tablet toward him. He smiled and commented on my Christmas tree in the background.

And then there she was: attentive, but stunned. Her speech was slurred. Elise was rushing me off the phone.
“We have to go,” she said.
I lingered in my goodbye.
“See you tomorrow, Grandma,” I said, trying to sound cheerful. Then I paused. “I love you.”
Despite the slurring, she replied, “Oh, my dear, I love you more.”

That’s when the tears came. I hung up and let them fall. Tears that had waited for this moment.
No one is ever truly ready to lose what is inevitable.
What’s the big deal? She had a good life.
I know I don’t want her to suffer, but I can’t imagine a world without her.
Everyone thinks they’ll have more time.
There… could… have… been… more…time.

Now, I have the photographs when I want to remember.