My Grandmother -grandma- You-re Wet- -final- By... Today

It sounds absurd. Insufficient. A child’s observation, not a deathbed confession. But words are not measured by their syllables. They are measured by the weight they carry when the tide of someone’s life is finally going out.

I visit every Sunday. We don’t talk much anymore. Her mind has become a house with most of the rooms closed off. She knows my face but sometimes calls me by my father’s name. She knows she is old but sometimes asks when her mother is coming to pick her up. My Grandmother -Grandma- you-re wet- -Final- By...

Grandma was in her wheelchair by the window, watching the rain hit the glass. She didn’t turn when I came in. It sounds absurd