Grandpa's ashes sat on her dresser
six years
in a small brown box
under a gold-plated rose,
anxiously waiting
for her
the way he couldn't live
without her
back when he was alive.

Grandma died last week,
but when the question
-- that stingy, crude, awful question --
was asked,
my mom said
She was a woman.
She deserves a box of her own."

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems

Share This Poem