Yahrzeit

They called me at school.

Grandma had died

at the nursing home.

They said she had

died in her sleep.

The last time I visited her,

they had velcroed her into a wheel chair.

They always die in their sleep.

The last time I saw her at home,

my parents' home, on the sunny terrace,

she said "I'm no good, I'm no good anymore."

I told her I loved her, and said

“Look how we’re talking. You're better than

Good,” I said, "You're my grandma.”

They had to put her into the home.

She had fallen in the bathroom,

they had found her on the floor,

they could not lift her,

they had no choice,

my parents.

They never last long when they

are sent away.

The place smelled of tomato soup

and urine.

“How often do they get bathed?”

“They are just fine here.

Don't you worry.”

On June 28, I don't know the

Jewish day, I don't even care,

I light a candle that comes

In a nice little glass.

Sometimes I have a drink in

the little glass I last used

to remember my grandma, who

died on June 28, 1973,

of natural causes.

Martin Greene, c 2/18/02