Grandmother by Jerome Ramcharitar

I am with her and beside her and away from myself.

Like Victoria Beach sand, the diner is loosely packed.

Through the glass, I see myself,

still barely more than a teen.

We dine quietly.

She smiles and the wavy warmth of her skin

does nothing to betray the lymphoma.

It’s as if she's never had it.


Glass is fickle enough to welcome light

and yet its thickness regrets the air.

It stops a voice.

I try to listen but cannot hear.


Waking up, I remember her saying,

"If something scares you, you should probably try it.”

It is my last memory of her.


Jerome Ramcharitar is a writer based in Montreal, Quebec. Most of his days are spent teaching English as a second language and occasionally causing more trouble as a poet. A dabbler by nature, he has dipped his fingers into editing, translation, and the dangerous world of card games.

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