By Peyton Bender
Grandma is small like me.
Nestled into her faded flowered
sheets, huddled into a pillow-fort
coffin, her wrinkled eyelids
blanket her eyes; her lips
do not greet me with a smile
today. She breathes like my
cabbage patch doll—so subtly
her chest does not rise
or fall. I stare at the beige tray next
to Grandma’s bed, the cherry
jello losing its balance;
the nurse in purple pajamas sighs
at her untouched plate, ushering
me into the hall … where was her
tattered fleece blanket with
the stained rainbow hearts?
Why did she not light her
ma-hog-a-ny teak-wood
candle before we arrived?
The stale stench of microwaved
mashed potatoes follows me past
the kitchenette and my feet
drag along the chestnut carpet
as I hug Hippo close. The nurse
clicks the radio on for me
to rehearse, but I do not
want to dance. I watch
the carnations bushelled
on the wall outside Grandma’s
room, longing for the pink
petals to dance for me.
