At 4:05 AM on Sunday, January 6th, my grandmother died at the age of 88. A week before, talking to her weak voice over the phone, she insisted that I visit Scotland, and travel. She was always a voice of strength and optimism for me. I wrote this for her.
A long farewell
and our memories tell themselves
like leaves drawn down from old trees,
trees grown up past their limbs,
past their bodies,
toward a sun far off and ever bright.
A little past four in the morning...
the phone rang, I answered.
Mom tells me she's made her flight there,
the last leaf gone from a tree done with this world.
Could I dig my hands down
into this earth
and find the memory of my grandmother there.
I will remember all that I have loved
about you.
I will live as you asked me to.
"Go to Scotland", she said.
Tonight, grandmother,
I know where you've gone off to.
There is a green field
long and rolling, with a wind crossing it
setting the grass to waving
and it is green, so green as to put emeralds to shame
there in Scotland, near a line of trees
perhaps a stream, some old fallen castle
and a silent road, silent but for the footsteps
of my grandmother walking strongly along.
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