My grandmother’s grave lies at 335 Nichols Street in Fitchburg, Massachusetts.

When I was a child, we used to sing French songs as we washed the dishes

Every Wednesday while my mother worked,

Gentille alouette and soapy suds.

When I grew older, she forgot the words, but they stayed in my mind.

In my mourning, my love for her and our time together 

Pushed me to connect with her in the only ways I had left:

The language and country she used to deify. 

Memere, I say, I’m learning French in school, just like you always wanted me to!

That’s wonderful dear, her headstone replies. Tell me, what’s your name again?

The summer of my twelfth year, the doctor told us that she was gone.

In Canada, her country, I mourned her loss.

She always called it “God’s country,” 

But that summer, I never felt less holy.

We buried her in our minds, hoping she was in a better place,

And planted flowers at the grave we were left with.

Whenever it got too hard, too sad,

I went to the cemetery in my head.

Memere, I say, I miss you. I wish I could hug you one last time.

That’s wonderful dear, her headstone replies. Tell me, what’s your name again?

I know every time I speak to her grave, I will be disappointed,

But the hope stays alive that just once, she will say,

Emily, I love you, and I remember.