Grief / Poetry

Most Precious One

What’s left of grandma,
is the title of grandpa,
hanging heavy
on his coat rack thin
shoulders.
Stirring taco soup
on the stove.
Squinting
at the tiny, scrawling handwritten
recipe.
Trying to feel a
tinier
bit
less than half
of something once whole.
Still missing, “my most precious one,”
he says to
an empty future and his
granddaughter listening
in.

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