The last visit and conversion…

Here lies,
My grandmother…
A week from: death.
The archetypal grandmother
Of all nursery cries
Made that much, better.

Here lies,
My grandmother…
In that week of heinous—lies,
Spoken in “hellos”
And not “goodbyes”
In that week before; her death.

Before the cloak of her life
Falls, silently bereft.
In surrendered, breath
In hopes prayer
In hopes never-ending
In words that are formed,
Like crusts of bread.

Floated in the mouths of the living,
Where once it was healingly, said.
That our own increments will rise
Conversely,
And speak from our own deathbeds.
Shall not all of us…
One day, converse, with the dead.

Here lies,
My grandmother…
And to date she is dead.