The Last Visit And Conversion… Poem by Mark Heathcote

Here lies-
my grandmother-
weak and tired, nearing her death.
The archetypal grandmother
who soothed all manner of nursery cries?
Who made everything so much better?

Here lies-
my grandmother-
weak, drained, approaching her final breath
in that last week of heinous lies
spoken in strictly sweet 'hellos,
not in those sad, departing, closing 'goodbyes.'

Valedictions, farewells
before, the cloak of her life-
lifts and falls silently bereft.
Closes like a child's ballerina music box
in her last wheezed, surrendered, dying breaths.
In hopes-prayer
in hopes coiled never-fading-ending
in words, formed all too cold and informal.
Like crusts of stale bread.

Floated in the mouths of the living,
where it has been faithfully said
that our increments will also rise-
conversely, against all natural logic.
And speak from our deathbeds.
'Will not every one of us
one day, converse with the dead.'

Here lies-
my grandmother
and to bring you up to date, she is now dead, deceased.
But conversely, against our present state of mind
but not this individual, not my heart or will.
I'll open a ballerina music box and hear her sing once more.
I'll see her again in this life or the next, all logic denied.
Of that, my dear friends, I am not just nostalgically sure.