The room is quiet, a stranger there,
I walk in, trailing behind,
As my mom says hello my grandfather wakes,
I come over and he gives me a hug,
Then grabs both my hands.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers,
“Don’t be,” I answer,
I should be apologizing to him.
I feel his hands, weak and strong,
The grip tight, yet I feel every heartbeat
It can’t be that tight.
He shakes, weak, and still tries to talk
I respond with “Okay” each time,
And finally “I love you.”
And as I pull away my mom comes,
And she cries and he says “I’m sorry” to her too.
I go to the other bed, where Gramma sleeps,
Still and thin, is she cold?
I’m too scared to touch her (maybe tomorrow),
I’m certain she’s sleeping,
But I talk to her.
“I love you,” I say, “It’ll all work out.”
“It’s nice to see you, I missed you.”
I’ll miss her more when she’s gone,
But I don’t say the words.
Finally I stand up, sorrow in my eyes,
I wait for my mom to say her goodbyes,
And then I say them too
And we leave.