by Ashton Wronikowski

If my grandmother dies, she’ll think I hate her.
All the sunburns I got while watching her freckles
reach out to each other, giving her a “tan”,
the countless hours watching Harry Potter with
her gentle snores as the backdrop while I memorized each line,
the hundreds of hummingbirds landing to be closer
to her sweetness are all wasted
when I think of her now,
sitting in her house and waiting for my call.

I almost wish her bright coral lipstick stains had been permanent,
that her fiercely tight hugs had branded me,
marking me forever with the visible signs of her
as if somehow that would measure up
to all the plain vanilla ice cream cones dripping down our hands,
every night that lead to “just for tonight”’s sharing of beds,
to the Band-Aid surgeries and porch swing therapies.

On a Sunday night ages ago,
I tried to blend in with the wallpaper
so the magic wouldn’t end. Mom and Dad found me, like they always did
and on the way out my grandmother wrapped me in her arms
smelling of Clinique and warmth, and made me promise not to forget her
when I grew up and left home.

I’m so sorry.
I have no excuse, other than admitting
that looking at you hurts, because
you’re a hummingbird flying in slow motion — beautiful, but broken,
functioning at half capacity.
Listening is worse, somehow, because what once was
my favorite record, ringing strong and clear,
now rasps and skips – and skips –
a tinny parody of what once was.

Am I supposed to just watch this?
A woman who danced on tables when she won at cards,
who raced me through sprinklers to prove she was faster,
just disappear? Fading slowly so I see
every lost feather drift to the ground and hear
every tired heartbeat grow fainter?

Go ahead and hate me.

[ display-posts category=”poetry”]