Barbara Grace Doyle

To confront your life, however unfinished, is a terribly difficult task.

To see your hands,

which have carried the caskets of both grandfathers—

Carried them to the holes in the earth 

And come back to outline the stones above with pine cones and carnations.

To face Smits funeral home in Dyer, 

which you know all too well and in turn knows you too well.

To know the names of every employee there 

and be equally familiar to them.

To glower at your vocal cords and mouth,

which don’t hesitate to speak out against injustice or rattle mundane facts, 

but failed to tell Aunt Roseanne and Grandpa everything they meant to you

Even though you knew time was not your friend

Even though you’ve done this enough to know better.

To twist the gold claddagh on your right hand—

The one your mom gave you.

A symbol of your Irish heritage

And of the first grandfather you lost—

The one who seldom smiled, now reunited with the wife he’d lost,

The grandmother you never got to meet, and the daughter fallen much too early to an inattentive driver,

Your aunt and namesake, 

who you’ll know only through stories and a cold, unfeeling stone.

It adorns the same finger your other grandpa tugged 

a few short hours before you lost him too.

To hear the echo of a grunt, 

the only response he could muster to your 

“I love you, Grandpa”

Before your household of six became 

a household of five.

And while you know the grunt meant 

‘I love you too, silly goose’,

You still wish that was what you heard

Instead of another painful reminder that

The strongest man you’d ever known

Was weak and fading,

Off to “boogsta hooga” 

As he’d always suggested 

And you’d always giggle at,

But now you’re left wishing you’d agreed

Because then you would still be with him,

Still be able to nestle into his world-class hugs.

To wonder what you’d done

Because you must have done something truly evil to deserve this.

But who are you to complain?

You are so privileged, so lucky

And yet you sit here pitying yourself.

To feel the weight of the burden you are on your parents,

The burden they insist you’re not,

But you’re not so sure

Because you are the daughter they have to worry about,

The daughter who’s expensive hearing aids they have to pay for and

The daughter who’s mind won’t calm

The daughter affectionately called “moonbeam” 

which you have to admit suits you well,

But it reminds you that you are not the “sunshine” your sister is

And you can’t be 

because those rose-tinted lenses shattered long ago,

replaced with a shield that you haven’t put down since.

To wait to fall apart

Only when alone in the car

Or quietly in the shower

Because everyone you love is struggling too

And you want to be strong for them, 

So your comfort can wait.

You’ll run through digits of pi in your head

Until all your emotions are carefully tucked

Behind a wall of numbness.

Then at night, you’ll settle into the solitude of your bedroom ceiling,

Eyes tracing the streaks of a paint roller, 

uneven or discolored in patches,

But oddly soothing.

To work to improve yourself

Because you know you’re worth more than this

And it’s about time you act like it

Because you’d never treat anyone the way

You treat yourself.

And it isn’t fair to you.

You’re trying

And that’s all that matters right now.