She leans in to whisper, something about Granma as such
Something peculiar, that her breath may have just caught up with itself
I sit myself correct and work with my mouth yet fail to find a smile
Is she alright, I have to utter
She’s less than that, I’m afraid, she says
And the room steps into place with my mother’s every single tear – as though organically puppeteered, softened surround sound suddenly hushing itself right out
A final whimper to clear the air – eerily funeral-like
We hug to hold, her heart has been tugged from nowhere I do know

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