Hanging On

November 24, 2017

The long black coat hangs in the armoire      heavy with silence

decades of un-wornness          a lifetime stint in the tropics

gathered in the seams


Dead at eighty six

she never returned

to her woolen-some place


Or did she?


Bed-ridden for a year

what if once set free

she flew

to the brown green mountains

her eyes    took the color from

saw the intact     unclouded     un-cataracted

blue sky?


Better than imagining grandma’s

soft stare hanging on forever

within some colorless

paneled walls.

Or not.


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