“People come and go so quickly here.” – Dorothy Gale
Today is one month since my Granny passed away. A few nights ago I dreamed about her. She was sitting beside my cousin Nikki, watching Nikki’s daughter and my son play together, something she really did love to do. We were all smiling.
This week I’ve been working on a poem that gives instructions for how to play Yahtzee with my Granny now, after her death. I’m pleased that I’ve been able to write about her still. She’s haunted my poems since I was very young, and I didn’t want to lose that.
Yesterday, I had a chat with a new undergraduate student about poetry and truth. She was so surprised when I told her that poetry doesn’t have to be non-fiction. I explained that poetry is art; it is large and varied. Even when we are writing about something that is “true,” we should craft our poems carefully so that other people can share the experience, and sometimes that means we’re writing fiction. Have I really been playing Yahtzee with my Granny’s ghost? No, but the poem captures something very true about our past and about my present longing for her. In 2009, nine years after my Grandpa’s death, I wrote the following poem about my Granny’s grief. Did this scene actually take place? I don’t recall that morning. I can’t know exactly what Granny was doing and thinking, but I know a whole lot about my grandparents’ lives, and for me this poem captures something true about their relationship.
The Morning After
She pictures him at the kitchen table,
reading the newspaper and sipping coffee
like he did every morning. So ordinary.
She remembers how, when they were first
married, he would tap his mug twice
on the table when he wanted a refill.
She’d hinted at first that this was not
polite, but still he tapped. One day,
she just ignored his knocking. He stopped.
Years later, they would laugh
about the tapping, the 50’s, their first
attempts at sex. Today, she wonders
if she’ll ever laugh again. She sits
in his place at the table and lifts
his mug. She brings it down lightly—
once, twice—then moves herself slowly
across the room, reaching for the coffee pot.
(First published in The Coffee Shop Chronicles, A Word with You Press, 2010.)