You met me one month late
In the airport, you clutched three small American flags.
You craned your neck to peek past the security guard,
Watching, waiting for your first granddaughter,
Just a napping bundle at the time
You waved
and you wept

You let me lie on the floral couch of yours when I was sick
Four years old with a runny nose and a sweltering fever
You would serenade me with rendition after rendition of B-I-N-G-O
My mother still hates that couch
The clashing flowers and faded fabric

I cried when they packed it up into a big purple moving truck
You were moving to another house a few streets away
I knew your new house would soon become a home
You’d fill it with the fresh smell of potted house plants
Start a new stash of chocolates in the upper left hand side of the cabinet
Display your grandchildren’s vibrant artwork on doors, by your computer
filling the once blank halls

You were only moving five minutes away from your old house
But I hated change
And you did too

Each time we left your house,
Having eaten well
having been alleviated with a dose of you never ending  grandmother love
You’d stand by the screen door and wave
My sister and I would scramble to roll down the backseat windows
And we’d wave back

Walking down the cold empty halls of the hospital
I know these walls, these halls, these smells too well
I find myself in the doorway to your hospital room
I’m hesitant when I see beeping machines and haphazard wires
I’m scared to see you’re familiar face weary and sleep deprived
You’re dressed in a thin blue gown
Your smile is wide,
And you wave a wave that doesn’t mean goodbye this time
So I step into the room