Death is getting

a call

at seven in the morning

asking you to

come to the hospital

to see your sick

grandfather.

Death is finding out 

that he is taking

a nose dive

and requires surgery

to put an IV 

in his juggular.

Death is having the doctor

come to visit

you and your family

and telling you

Grandpa can no longer 

breathe on his

own.

Death is standing

in his hospital room,

watching his stomach

as the breathing machine

pumps air

in and out, in and out, in and out.

Death is watching

his heart monitor

plummet like a

skydiver.

Death is holding his hand

and thanking him

for everything

and telling him

you love him

as he

takes

his

last

breath...

What I really

want to say is

death is final, 

death is real.

But it doesn't seem

final and real.

I still expect

to walk to Grandpa's house

where I will find him

sitting at the kitchen table,

eating dry roasted peanuts,

and he will say with a laugh

"Well, Rylie Maria, I haven't

seen you in months!"

even though

it's only been

a week.

Life hasn't been

the same

since Saturday, September 13, 2014

at ten A.M. 

Grandpa, I miss you

more than words can ever

begin to say,

and I can't wait 

for the day when

the angels will

pick me up

and carry me home

to you,

where we can be

together

again.