my grandfather asks my mother to call him on the hour
because he believes he has died

and wind rips around the glowing box
of his apartment, screaming
like the stray cats my whole family loves
to feed and cradle in arms.

- - - -

my grandmother is gone
and all my family can talk about is feeling
around in the darkness
we are all blindfolded
by a grief longer than we've ever known

and we reach for the same similes
groping for meaning and comfort
over the phone,
processing her absence like walking
through a long, dark tunnel

each of us praying
that we won't be left there for good.

- - - -

grief

is

a clear
light

- - - -

hold me.