Poetry That Breathes

Things have a way of piling up

For Meme, I love you so.

I remember the day my grandmother

Said her last coherent sentence

"Things have a way of piling up."

She whispered so faintly I question if she even said it at all.

Between the pills and her constant confusion 

I might be making something out of nothing 

But that doesn't mean she didn't know what she was saying.

Things have a way of piling up she screamed

like boxes and boxes of words left unsaid

words that break

words that mend

words that forge

words that end

things have a way of piling up she cried

like stacks of old photographs.....

in her mind...

gathering dust....

They show painful memories

sharp like daggers

they show love and hope 

warm like embers

they show sadness like rain

Happiness like sunshine

they show her life but she doesn't recognize those faces in the photographs

... gathering dust

things have a way of piling up she whispered

she doesn't know what

she cannot remember

she stares blankly at the pictures

tracing them sloooowly

her eyes rise to the ceiling

though she knows she won't find anything holy 

And she knows things have a way of piling up

if only

if only

she could remember what.