"Good bye, Grandmother,"
Say the smallest among us.
"Your sweet smile we'll always
Remember the longest."
"We've lost our guide,
Our friend and our mother.
Your daughters will miss you
In more ways than others."
"We're missing our sister,
Our childhood friend,
But your brothers and sister
Know we'll see you again."
"Farewell, darling daughter,
The apple of my eye."
Your sad, but proud mother
Whispers softly, "Good bye."
We thank you, dear friends,
For sharing our grief,
But our family takes comfort
In Kathie's belief.
About the Creator
Fred Bobbitt
I am a rural American poet. I find inspiration in the simple things which comprise a country lifestyle.
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson3 days ago in Fiction
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