The Viewing

She was always tapping her thumbs.

Humming. Buzzing.

Always smiling and sitting calmly.

But not this still.

Not like now.

The voices in the room evaporated

Into a soft hiss

As my eyes shifted

Across the thick white comforter that consumed

Her freshly painted toenails

That Grandpa had spent so long working on

Because he knew she would have wanted

To look pretty.

Her cheeks hung low

As if gravity was picking on her,

Pushing down twice as hard,

Stretching her lips to the sides

Like how she’d frown

When she was losing a game of dominos,

When her hat was on,

The little silver thimble she loved,

And she had to draw from the graveyard

Time after time,

Until all the tiles had accumulated around her

And we purposefully ignored our winning pieces

So she had a chance to catch up.

Sometimes she was lucky

And would place down one of those

Heavy 24-dot pieces,

The chalky grey ones

That were such a burden

In the long line of fifteen tiles we’d draw.

But in the end she’d come in last

And let out a long sigh

Through her oxygen tube.

I fingered the penny in my pocket,

My hat,

As I stood there in the graveyard,

Fishing for the tiles that could piece back

Together what had been lost

And what would never be seen again.