A Writer’s Inspiration

You told me to write, so I didn’t stop writing. Laying on your death bed it was one of the last things you said to me. Barely conscious, you didn’t say you loved me. But in a way it was your way of telling me, that you saw something. Some sort of dream.

At the time I tried to write down my words. About all the things you said that hurt, to confirm that your love was indeed real. Barely conscious, I wondered if you could even feel…Understand what I had to say. So I left you alone and you never knew. Yet somehow I still hope that you do.

I write a poem and a song everyday now, and I wonder if it is because of you. That maybe your spirit is still around, and telling me to be strong when I feel like I’ve fallen down. Sometimes I hope, but you are dead and gone now.

Your house is not the same… the warm welcome of the holidays. It was you who reminded me that a building is just a place, but people make it what it is... But still a place is given character, a way to always remember. Memories can live on a shelf, and maybe I can stop by again and pick one out.

When I think of your words it’s like I commune with you. That moment pops back up again. You’ve become as a daimon pointing the direction when I’ve become lost on the path… a torch lighter in the darkness.

And your deep hollowed eyes, deep blue had cried. Unconscious but still concerned mumbling the little bit of words. “Write, Write, Write.”

* This monologue is about my grandmother who passed away 10 years ago. My grandfather passed away a year later, tragically. I loved my grandmother but I always felt like she knew I was different from them. I am the only one on that side of the family who is biracial, and I was always put in the middle when it came to questioning their love for me. I loved spending time with them and I felt happy but I always still questioned in the back of my mind whether I was truly loved or not.

My grandmother wasn’t taking care of her health and she had stage four cancer. She never went to the doctor so by the time she found out she was already on a path of no return. I sung for her Amazing Grace, and Landslide by Fleet wood Mac While she was in the beginning of Hospice care. As she progressively got worse, she seemed like she was unconscious at times and would mumble things and try to hold your hand to show she was still there. One of the last things she said to me was “Write.” I always loved writing and would write poems all of the time and show them.

When she said this I wanted to write down all of the things that I had questions about from her. But then I gave up thinking that she wouldn’t understand and that it might cause more problems than solve anything. She passed away probably a day later, and I never told her how I felt. But after her funeral, a yellow butterfly approached me and flew all around me.

When I was a little girl we used to do butterfly kisses which was when we would touch eyelashes. At this point I know that it was her spirit visiting me and telling me that she does love me. I miss her very much.