My cabin in Fisherman’s Paradise,
a place you loved.
A quantity of painkillers
for a busted back, a turned-off phone,
a knock from a neighbor:
It’s your grandmother.
Driving in a car named Silver Bells,
bad back on a bad seat,
a John Hiatt song bringing my tears.
forever-after referred to as The Healer,
and a leg adjustment.
My cousin Sue, rising from her chair,
holding me in her eyes, then in her arms.
Cutting my braid,
drafting lawyerly letters,
receiving your writing desk and papers,
my mother crying in my lap.
Not being there before you died,
not talking to you, not seeing you.
Not saying goodbye.
Fireblossom has challenged the Real Toads to write in free verse this weekend and has written a wonderful, informative primer on the subject that everyone should read. It's here: