If I Had Ever Loved

I am commonly asked

if I’ve ever been in love.

When I reply:

“Yes, but you probably

wouldn’t want to hear about it.”

They would keep plucking

at my vocal cords

as if

they were elegantly playing guitars

until I say more.

The last time I saw her,

her strength had fled

from her paperclip bones like

they were sick of her.

She had no voice

but her eyes told me

that she loved me

in the loveliest voice

I had ever heard.

She had earthquakes

in her hands

that made my knees

tremble.

Removing the happiness that seeped

from my fingertips

as the lampshades

f

e

l

l

to the

ground.

Now looking at me like crows

in the cornfield,

not expecting

such an honest answer.

I could tell that they wished

they had not asked at all.

And I cant help but continue.

The last time I saw her,

she was alive.

Her legs were as lifeless

as the sock monkey

I threw at the dogs

so they’d just

shut

the

hell

up.

But her heart

was still beating

when I helped her

to the bathroom.

When they now start to depart

because I’m talking

in five-gallon buckets

instead of

one,

I feel the need

to go on.

The last time I saw her,

tears fled my eyes from her telling me

she loved me

but she didn’t remember

my name.

The last time I saw her

she was holding onto life

the same way

she held my hand

but her grip started

f a d i n g a w a y

like dust the second I said

“Grandma,

it’s okay.”

And when they ask why

my tone is so filled

with anger, it’s because

the last time I saw her

her hair was barely starting

to grow back;

from the chemo a doctor prescribed.

Her health,

her god denied.

12:01 am September 29th, 2014.

Was the date and time she died.

The last time I saw her,

she was so beautiful.

Her skin,

her hair,

she was so beautiful.

I was in love with her.

She wasn’t breathing,

her lungs were not

compressing.

But she will,

for eternity,

be alive to me.

My grandmother died

at age 70

she never knew it,

but she was

immortal to me.