It is done.
The chapter finished.
No,
the book.
She journaled
as long as I can remember.
I always thought
it was strange
how impossible
her handwriting was
despite daily practice.
I don’t think she knew
I wrote too.
Though I know
my handwriting
is impossible
so I do this
instead.
What’s left to say
of a life
complete?
Our last words,
“I love, love, love you,”
she said.
“I love you too, grandma, so much.”
As I walked to the hallway
knowing
it would be the last.
What’s left to say
of a life
complete?
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