Her makeup is perfectly sprinkled
over every wrinkle on her
fragile, aged face. Her
brown eyes are closed and
perfectly relaxed. She’s
in her Sunday best—freshly
washed, ironed precisely—A
more important occasion than
just church. I can see her lips
crinkle up just slightly at the end;
the same way she looked
whenever I’d tell her I loved
her. I hold her freezing hand
and softly smooch her forehead
just because Dad says. Then,
my vision widens as I step
back and see my great
grandmother encased in a
wooden box at ninety-three.
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