Dear J,
I had a dream a few weeks ago
that I visited my grandma in the New Jersey facility,
and her eyes were big with a fear I’d never seen on her.
She told me she was going to die,
and that she didn’t want to;
it was so unfair.
I drew her to me gently,
feeling her bones through her feather pillow body,
and said softly in her ear,
“I am going to miss you so much,
but I am excited for your transition.
I am happy for you to move on.”
We came apart, and her face wore surprise,
but no anger, no fear.
I remember your 21st birthday,
the nurses and doctors handing you “shots”
(water in plastic medicine cups).
You started crying,
the irony unlightened by everyone’s efforts.
So many milestones in seven years
that passed
like the ghosts of smoke
from candles already blown out.
I know we enter this world fighting,
not knowing who or what or why
we are.
I wonder if you left it struggling for the same answers,
or if your body heaved a final sigh,
releasing every hospital birthday,
every college application date,
every diagnosis that was longer than your name,
every chance at normalcy that passed you by,
and nothing was fair
or unfair,
and twenty two years collapsed into a moment,
and instead of fighting to become separate,
you stopped fighting and became.