What I remember of you is very little.
I was young when you passed.
I remember when you gave me,
a five year old,
four lollipops.
Your reasoning?
"two in each hand
so you don't lose balance 
and fall over"

I remember you at your husband's wake.
You cried over his casket
it was "the worst day of your life"
as you said.
It was soon forgotten.

I remember visiting you.
You offered us icecream and I felt
uncomfortable- but that's not your fault.
You didn't know that Grampy
wouldn't be coming home today.
You didn't know he'd been gone so long.
We let you live
in your ignorant bliss.

I remember that you didn't look the same,
you laid expressionless,
your face was too flat,
instead of round, plump, and smiling.
They had your hair just right,
blonde ringlets framing your face,
as you slept under the orchids.

I remember sitting in your home
without you,
dividing up your jewelry.
You'd wanted
your great granddaughters 
to have it.

I didn't get to chance to know you,
but I wish I could have.