she is in bed. her breath comes shallowly, with sounds of a stuck zipper opened. my family uncomfortable. my brother bringing tea. her mouth slack. death arrived slowly like a man collecting bins. her face not a face – just a place for holes to go through. the room is warm. things blink. oxygen and medical machines. she looks nothing like anyone's grandmother. eyes closed, cheeks aged inward – a pumpkin on the doorstep of an empty house, rotten on the second week of november.
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