A Still Moment In My Grandmother’s House
She spoke over scribbles;
post-it notes from twenty years ago reminding her to get milk
spot the landscape of her creme walls buried behind plants and papers.
You’re not special, you’re just hurting,
she spoke to some unseen victim.
I wondered if
hurt was a requirement for normalcy, if
the feeling in my heart was something worthy of it,
if I was special.
Yet it didn’t weigh me down.
She carried on
into the antique phone, laying out a path to recovery.
I took note of it,
following it to acceptance as I followed
her dog around all of the shit she could have given the world.
3 thoughts on "A Still Moment In My Grandmother’s House"
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Ah, such a picture. Enjoyed it.