She was 98, hours dead, shrouded
from her gnarled feet to her knotted shoulders
by a hush of bleached linen. She was smaller,
sleeker, smoother, as if she had stepped
out of the rising dough of her earthly flesh,
then laid down to collect her thoughts
for a farewell speech or sneak a catnap
before her journey to another dimension.
Her body had begun to arc like a new kite
poised on a pillow of air, ready for flight,
her mouth a tiny “o” where her spirit had left
to take on a new assignment. Three days later
we wept her into heaven, fingering long-
abandoned rosaries we’d buried in bottom drawers,
cursing our way through soggy hymns
while Nana sang harmony from her coffin.
