Vivid memory
Almost forty years ago
Her hands, grammy’s hands,
Old, blotched, tired
Gripped the sheet metal
The folding chair below her
White knuckles
Held her fast
Unmoving, denying
Unwilling, unable,
To stand, to rise
To walk ten feet
To say goodbye;
Her daughter
Youngest of her seven
children
Gone before her
We waited
Silently, to honor her,
In pain, like her,
Aunt, Daughter,
Sister, mother, friend
Pain no more
For her, at rest
Too soon, too young,
For us, her loved ones,
Staring, waiting
Open sore, a wound,
Frozen in time;
Her clenched jaw,
White knuckles
--------------------
edited January 21, 2016
White Knuckles – v2
posted February 27, 2004
written 9/19/03 15:20
White Knuckles
About the funeral of my aunt, Susan Ring Davidson,
born April 1, 1948, died in September 1978, of cancer.
My grandmother could not get up.
Her youngest was not supposed to go first.
I was one of the pall bearers.
The words came back to me today,
hearing of the death of Sherrie Bettenhausen,
one of the other students in my Mediation class this
summer.
Edited 9/19/03 17:15, at suggestion of Roberta Woods,
to add the line about being the youngest of seven.
All of my
poems and photographs are copyrighted by Raymond A. Foss, 2000, 2001, 2002,
2003, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015,
2016. All rights reserved. Contact me at Ray Foss (raymondafoss@gmail.com) for
usage. See all 40,750+ of my poems at www.raymondafoss.blogspot.com
Poetry Where You Live.
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