Last night
When the moon was full,
I looked for Gramma’s sign.
It never came
We’d made a pact that when she went,
She’d come back to me as a shooting star
Across the full moon.
But she never came
Maybe she won’t.
Maybe, when you die,
You’re just dead.
I sometimes think
She chooses not to come
Because she’s angry.
Gramma was always
Very wise and patient
But I read in one of her journals
She was upset with me once before
When she thought I was pregnant.
I wasn’t,
But I don’t think it’s ironic
She died right after she learned
I was pregnant last year.
I think it rendered
Our star/moon agreement
Null and void.
By Amy Kalvig
1 comment:
Amy... I loved this poem. I am sorry you have to live with knowing your Gramma might have been angry.... I think she knows now the truth. She is there... you may not see her in the stars, but she is there.... smiling, loving and waiting....
Your writing brought tears to my eyes. I loved my Grandma too.. she's gone now, but waiting! We will pick up and play again someday!
Debra Jones, Carmel, IN
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