Poem to my Grandmother

The worst part isn't knowing
That you're gone;
It isn't feeling your lose;
It's not the memories flooding my eyes.
The worst part is here,
In the mortuary,
With your waxen body all laid out.

Your hands clutch a rosary bead
Like they once did ours when we were little.
Your eyes are closed
And you almost look like you're asleep.
There's lace around you
And we know that this is what you would have wanted.
There's a ray of sunshine on your face
And you almost look like the perfect saint.

Rain falls
From all our eyes.
We clutch each other in comfort
Hoping we won't drown.
And when we think we're almost done
When it feels like we've got nothing left
We all look at him
The man who loved you more than himself
And watch him crumble
And weep.

The worst part
Is seeing a person who loved
Lose the love he once had.

The worst part
Is watching a man who stayed strong
Finally crumple.

The worst part
Is knowing that this
Is the last time we'll ever see you again.