We
wait
until
mother calls
us to the coffin
where grandpa lies with hands still clasped
as if in prayer, and we cover our mouths, suppress
our giggles as he never prayed a day in his long life—
or so grandma says, with sherry-scented breath, drawing us close.
“It’s our little secret,” she adds, pressing chocolates into
our hands . . . a memento mori more of her than him.
“Your grandpa was a real medium—not a fake who
pretended to call forth the dead.”
We know this as we
still savor
grandma’s
cold
kiss.