My grandmother is dying
In the ward next to mothers giving birth.
Her baby is holding her hand
And I, her baby, is beside.
A never ending chain
Of women and children
Of women
and children
“Hurry” she whispers in a state
Of memories within delirium
It’s so like her:
“Hurry”
She was always on time
(Which we all know means early)
Rushing everyone out the door
Only to sit
In waiting rooms,
Living Rooms,
Church Pews.
A nursing student who would convince the others
to ditch the dorms and party uptown
Smoke cigarettes, play basketball, dump boys who didn’t call.
“Hurry” I bet she said,
To avoid getting caught by the house mother
Sneaking onto cargo planes with my grandfather
To fly across the country
Stowed away between boxes destined for air force bases
“Hurry” I bet she said,
To avoid getting caught by the base lieutenant
Even as a young woman,
She needed six of her own
And many more she would bring home
“Hurry” I bet she said,
While working the night shift in Princeton, Coronach or Montreal.
No seatbelts in the ’60s
Giggling kids jostling across the seat
While driving to campgrounds, hockey or ballet.
“Hurry” I bet she said,
Packing the gaggle of kids into the station wagon
She was a fine dressed woman
Loved parties, perms and gin & tonics.
Smelled of Chanel No 5
“Hurry” I bet she said
Pulling her friends to dance to the next song.
The start of her downfall
To the end was quick.
After 91 years, there wasn’t much left for her here,
“Hurry, where do I need to go?”
She mumbled softly
The last time I saw her,
It was late and dark.
I kissed her forehead
Beneath her soft curls spilled on the pillow
And slipped out while she slept.
Two weeks later,
She’d do the same to all of us at once.
Wax Poetic by Julia Johnson 