Ahma
Every little thing reminding me of my ahma.
Felicia’s grandma just passed.
I’m jealous.
I don’t get to experience times with my ahma and look at her with a little more mature perspective.
I don’t get to go to her and shout ‘ahma!’ like a little child, even when I grow older.
I don’t even get to regret not spending more time with her. Because I was given opportunities to, but I was too young to treasure them, and even too young to get to know her.
I don’t get to visit her myself. Bring pastries. Bring a can of beer.
I wish I had ahma to develop a nice close bond with.
I wish I could start ranting to her, even if she might fall asleep listening. Even if she doesn’t understand my poor language. Even if she had nothing to respond. At least there would be a grand old ahma figure I would snuggle with. I can still remember her soft silky pajama-like clothing. I can still remember her wrinkled and sagged, but so soft, skin and back. Would be such a splendid place to lean and cry on.
I really want right now to complain to her about dad.
Dad using ahma’s death to prick me.
And I watched a funeral procession go by today.
Of course I remember ahma’s funeral, it was the only one my family ever held.
I was too young to be sad. I merely cried then because she died.
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