On the last day, I wrote
is it bad that I want her to die already?
There was nothing left here for her but pain
and morphine dreams.
We lost her in pieces.
First the arms that made countless spanakopitas.
Then the legs that drove her wherever she wanted
(to hell with what anyone else had to say).
Last, the voice that dimmed from yelling in Greek
to a mewling ow, ow, ow when they moved her,
to a whispered I'm going to die soon.
Her breath grew quieter, shallower,
until the last day, when for a second,
one eye opened,
as if she was trying to watch us say goodbye.
A/N: This is about my Yia-Yia (Greek for Grandma), who passed away from leukemia in 2015. Spanakopita refers to a cheese and spinach pie that is super delicious, though the version in restaurants or even the Greek store where my aunt gets them is nowhere near as good as my Yia-Yia's. Rough draft here. Feedback on a better title would be appreciated.