I never got to say good-bye.

Marguerite Bolobas Woolcott Mahoney

The first funeral I ever attended was yours.

I had planned to kiss your cheek,

as you lay there, all dressed up.

But when I touched your hand,

it was so cold I couldn’t do it.

I walked away without saying a word.

I didn’t get to the hospital in time

to see you before you died.

I missed you slowly suffocating

from emphysema,

your face turning dusky blue.  

The morphine and oxygen

were supposed to keep you

from feeling that you were breathing

through a very small coffee stirrer.

In the end, I’m glad I missed it,

but I never got to say goodbye.  

You sent me a check each year

on my birthday.  

It went up one dollar every year as I grew up.

I asked my mom once,

“Did she really give you a check for a dollar

on my first birthday?”

“No”, she said, “she gave me cash.”

By the time I was 10,

it was almost worth cashing.  

By the time I was 20, I was surprised.  

How did you ever find me?

I moved a lot, and yet every year,

your check was there.

By the time I was 30, it was even getting to be

a decent amount of money.  

But then you died.

I never thanked you for taking the time

to remember my birthday.

To send me a check every year.  

I know now, what it meant.  

It meant you were thinking of me,

all the way across the country.

You knew how old I was

and where I was living.  

You made sure I knew,

that you knew.  

It meant you loved me.

I love you too, Grandma.