Things I'll never say to my grandmother

The day your son begged you to move out, pleading
“How far does the lingering memory of him
outweigh the dilapidated state of this house?”
It hit me in my lungs when you said nothing

I wish I were blind to it, but I see it in your eyes
That amused sort of boredom in your absent smile
Typical of your polite, firm disregard for any advice
That look of “I’d listen to you, but I haven’t enough time”

I wish I grew up not learning to sense it in your calls
The heightened urgency every “take care of yourself”
The increasing gravity every “take it easy, stay happy”
The unsaid hope that you’re around to call again

I wish I didn't remember it every time we met
How you’d hold my little hand and we’d run in the fields
How you’d reach and pick any flower, I'd ask
And I wish the contrast didn't send me into shockwaves

I’d hold your hand and promise to meet again
If only I knew for sure I’d be in time
I’d write a book of every word of wisdom you care to impart
If only our language gap hadn’t grown as I have

I’d tell you about my day and friends and everything else
If only you weren’t drifting between worlds
Tethered physically, weakly, to this, to mine
But anticipating his, the great After.

It’s like waiting for a blast to go off-
When I’ve lived my days out
I’m sure I'll admire your nonchalance.
But I've yet to grow up and into that.

For now
I don't like how-
I’m so scared of-
I don't want you to-
Nevermind. There isn't enough time.
I love you very much
You are here now, and I'm holding your hand
And it is as warm as it ever was

none of the rest matters.
So why don't I tell you about my day
And you tell me about yours?