Mother's Mother

My mother's mother and I were very close. We needed each other in diversely validating ways. She needed to know experience hear and see and feel and touch a healthier love of mutual regard than she felt she achieved with any of her three daughters. I needed to feel I was some loved adult's most significant event, most vulnerable and transparent grace for who I felt and knew I was yet to gay become without any need to change what I could not internally rearrange. When I was a senior in high school this grandmother became sick with cancer and depression, mortal doubts and fear. I knew this not because I had visited her but because my parents and aunts whispered their hopelessness before repeatedly reminding me, There is nothing I can do to help her or prepare myself for such great loss, perhaps less great, more relief, for them. But they were wrong. Wrong about my grandmother. Wrong about me. Wrong about us, together. I knew her favorite hymns. I was her favorite voice. We needed no other instruments, percussive or lyrical. We had enough time to revisit our music lessons, Lyrics are tools for young friendship Not weapons against old enemies. Precious Lord take my hand, Lead me on when I can't stand. I am tired, I am weak, I am worn. Through these trials, Through this storm, Lead me on Precious Lord. And so we sang and so I danced and told her favorite story of beds too hard, of friends too soft, and a child who sings just might Of Earth too hot and river beds too soft and motherlands too cold and us, now growing distant, yet singing this last time just right.