What will I do when you’re gone?
When my arms wrap around the
embroidered pieces of your body one last time.
Intertwined with ephemeral linen bedsheets,
soft velour hands cling onto the little girl I once was.
Grey ancestral sprigs climb up from your
five-foot-two stature. Brushing my cheek—
inhaling freshly cut gardenias.
This is your final aide-memoire.
What will I do when your house is bare?
When the pitter-patter of worn-out moccasins
on soft linoleum is taken over by piercing
silence. When the cookie jar is empty, and the
Keebler Elf’s biggest buyer is nowhere to be found.
When hummingbirds are left wondering where
you are, and why their sweet red water dish is empty.
Missing are your magenta towels. A sale special—
yet never to be used. Saying goodbye to your pink bathroom,
something loved by few and hated by many.
Gone is the guest soap. A blushing ivory bar of history,
agglutinating to its silver dish. Again, never to be
used. When the only part of you left is in the faint
semblance of salmon tiles.
This is your subsequent pink repose.
What will I say when you’re gone?
That there are parts of you that will live in me forever.
That while sleepovers with you were rare, they were cherished.
That every day at breakfast I will think of you in your
floral puh-jamas. That when a child asks for strawberries, you
hand them a Toaster Strudel. That this is you and your
“mistaken fruit identity.” That we will never pass by the
breakfast pastry aisle without laughing.
Maybe I’ll say that we should each spend our days
trying to be a little bit more like you. Joyed by simple pleasures
of new hearing-aids and Conway Twitty. It is both listening
to the lives of the ones we love most, and “Hello Darlin’” that
get us out of bed each morning.
As these remembrances flood, will I say anything is the question?
When I am forced to stand before you on an oak ambo.
Looking down at this open-faced box of you. A doll
in plastic packaging. A Mattel figurine zip-tied down
by Catholic tradition. I am terrified to see your silk
panels stare at me—but I know they will stare at you forever.
I am forced to see your head resting on a pillow.
You look like an atmospheric dream,
but this all feels like a nightmare.
I am a plaintiff to your memory.
Having to speak shrill words of death. Having to speak—
because my father cannot. Having to look down at
spacious pews and lachrymose family. Having to look
down and be strong—when all I feel is weak.
What will it be like after?
I will be fine. I’ll get by knowing that
I didn’t get to say goodbye. In the end you
didn’t know my name, and that was okay.
“Angela” was close enough.
My own visions of you and Grandpa will move me forward.
You were met by Emil. Somewhere. At brass gates
and celestial bodies, you embraced.
Hello darlin'
Nice to see you
It's been a long time
You're just as lovely
As you used to be
I understood who you were you as the Hazel,
but you are different as “Darlin’”. You are now you again.
Conway plays softly as you square dance on toes—
laughing at each other. A re-kindled romance.
It is an unbearable farewell. But I will be okay.
I am grateful for every moment spent
talking to you.
Being with you.
Being a part of you.
This is what it is like after.
This is grief I have yet to feel.
Kaitlyn graduated from St. Norbert College in 2022 with a bachelor’s degree in English. After graduation, Kaitlyn moved to back to Colorado for her second summer as an Outdoor Literacy Educator in Steamboat Springs. She is currently teaching young Colorado youth all the wonders of reading and writing—from Harry Potter, to Hatchet, to Land of Stories! In her free time, Kaitlyn enjoys spending time outdoors with family and friends, blogging, reading and writing poetry, playing solitaire, and collecting vinyls.
