Phyllis Kinnard

My grandmother has fallen into the wind, her body lays cold where there was warmth, a closed lipstick grin where there was a smile of dentured teeth. May her heart of gold and luxury melt into the streets where her feet now stand, holding my father's father's hand, again. Dancing and playing, again. May her words of wisdom and charity repeat themselves back to me through whispers inside every wind. From dust we came to bone and meat, to dust we will be carried again by the wind through the streets to cities and towns, homes and memories.

For we are what we believe and what we fear is what we believe, what she feared was God, what she believed was family, this is what I see. I grieve for my family and their loss and am comforted by the love she poured and we drank.

In the end we react the only way we know how, despite the unsettling shock and fact that she will no longer share in what life we have left and with life comes death, happiness ends with sadness, such is true with my grandmother; a woman filled with words, there's nothing left to say.