Grandma’s Socks (CW: Death)

I saw her frail body lying on a couch, comforted /

by a quilt with many more red tones than the almost-lifeless skin under it. /

This brown couch, stained with the red delicious colored nail polish she /

always wore, /

held both of us when my grandfather cooked us eggs seasoned with /

waking-up-to-someone-you-love. /

A flavor she told me she mourns /

with her blueberry cracked lips, /

while looking at me with her chocolate pistachio eyes /

as her life drained from them. /

She left to see my grandfather again, /

joining him among the flickering pinpoints /

poked in the black fabric of space. /

//

I left to walk my grandmother's neighborhood alone, /

praying to god for the first time in my life. /

But, after walking for some time I collapsed /

onto the frigid, welcoming, sea foam metal /

of those almost-rusted electrical boxes; the transformers infesting /

the cracked and recumbent asphalt of every suburban neighborhood turn, /

where a tall light post stood over me, /

the light's eye accompanied by a fresh black coat of makeup, /

smelling of oil but worn like a tailored jacket fit for this special occasion. /

The light post watched over me, observing /

each breath that carried a souvenir of life /

during checkout of my organic hotel. /

I realised staring into the sky, /

lying atop that cold transformer, /

she will live on through my eyes.

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