THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.
I’ve always felt good health
is a wickedly funny thing.
People wish her well, and
laud her wellbeing at 95.
My begrudging smile, now
a dreary disguise, for
things they don’t know, for
this ache we gatekeep
behind old, frail doors.
Nocturnal nights. Rare
when she remembers me.
Incessant wailing, hysteria.
Her nails gnaw at my skin.
And soon realization dawns
that we’ll ever be bound:
her fading mind and my guilt.
Fragments of my grandma
to which I cling desperately
with gloom. Some days I’m
her mother or her sister,
donning new hats, and
learning new tunes.
COVID was the worst of it
and Grandma could not hide
I willed myself not to crumble
as her oxygen levels nosedived.
Yet mine stayed the only voice
she answered to in those weeks;
my shaking hands hid a prayer
in every mouthful I tried to feed.
My face in hopeful disbelief when
her body was no longer blue.
Our doctor called it a miracle;
Who am I to claim that untrue?
Nostalgia is the devil. It tempts
one to forego rationale, all for
some semblance of affection
that may have bid us adieu.
Years later, my parents fight
over a sleeping pill: “Let her age
without burden before this life
sets her still.” Do we pick peace
over morality? Grandma can’t see
nor hear. She only waits and wails,
while we hold on to our nostalgia.