Your shriveled lips
painted coral pink
glaring against your
Ronald Mcdonald red hued
hair
were forged into a weak smile.
Your teeth clacked
in the confines of your
dry as cotton stuffed mouth.
Your eyes,
the exact shade of his,
met mine warily confused.
Why are you staring at me,
you hissed, a hint of confusion in your tone.
Why wouldn't I?
Your my grandmother.
Or, are supposed to be.
Until you decided to turn your rotund backside
on me
dapper in your prim and proper clothes
until you chased down your morning mimosa
and held it in your dainty, manicured hands
and shoved the white pills
that made the absence you were for a mother
to your son
fade away
echo into the blackness
of your heart
you were my grandmother
until you let go
and now you are just a stranger
that might as well be dead to me