GRANDMA

When Grandma passed, 

she didn’t depart all at once. 

She left slowly, little by little. 

She slipped away with the last pears 

she picked days before her death, 

with the slippers by the door 

that we didn’t dare touch 

until spring, 

with the last pinches of savoury, mint, 

marjoram, and St. John’s wort, 

secretly tucked into my rucksack, 

wrapped in a brown paper bag. 

With the last handfuls of macaroni 

she made for the grandkids 

last summer, out in the yard, 

with her gown still hanging 

in the hallway, 

heavy with the absence of her. 

Now and then, she would come back 

for a brief moment— 

with the fragrant geraniums in the garden 

she handed me the last time I saw her, 

with the grapevine, which bore fruit 

for the first time that autumn, 

with the Christmas bread recipe, 

handwritten on a piece of paper, folded 

in four, which I know 

like the back of my hand, 

yet I read each year, 

caressing the paper with my fingers, 

summoning memories of her 

with every piece of bread I tear… 

Only the empty house 

reminds us abruptly 

of how far she is 

from here.