Double doors and tension.
She, almost consumed by the bed
leans and tells her last secrets
of youth and careful driving.
Five, she raised around my father
one gone before his time.
With closed eyes
my grandmother
reaches into the past,
unearthing long-lost jewels
and sorrows.
Her hands on mine tell
me to soldier on -
her soldier waits at home
with wallpaper.
Her gaze wanders off again into buried days.
The television hums,
the ice-cream in a cup melts.
Grace misplaced in straight lines, pills and windows.
Fucking hospitals.
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