Grandma Dorothy

“If there are two things I know for sure,”
you told me once with smiling eyes,
“They are that Jesus is the Christ and it will rain in Seattle!”
You always hated the grey skies.

Wall sized windows line the room
and look out at the jagged line of buildings
lining the bay during a soft sunset.

Safeco Field sits still with its roof pulled back
enjoying the rare moment of sunshine.

You would love this evening,
no hint of rain.

I look down on your face and close my hand
around yours.
And, though machines speak in their beeping language
that you are still here, I know you are not.

Your chest rises and falls, I touch it to feel your heart beat.
Sure enough, it is there
but you are not

because if you were, your fake pink nails would tap
on the plastic lining your bed.
Your feet would shuffle around the room
and we would yell at you to sit down.
You would smile at your nurse and crack a joke
with the man on the other side of the curtain
whom no one had come to visit.

When I ran from the airport into this stale smelling room
you would have met me at the door and pulled my face
down next to yours,
said my name five times in a high pitched voice
and squealed that no one had ever missed anyone
like you had missed me.
If you were here, your eyes would open
and you would squeeze my hand back.

“It’s time to turn off the machines
and let her go,” they say to me.

I kiss your cheek and whisper that I love you
even though I know those ears cannot carry
any messages to you
and that you already know anyway.

The beeping slows down,
my chest tightens
as yours stops moving.
It feels like the machines
force you to go.

I will blame it on those machines
even though your gnarled hands
would stubbornly grab on to the metal railing keeping you in this bed
and you would never choose to leave
if this lifeless form laying so still
were really you.