When I die,
I want a blue thumbnail from where the hammer missed,
And a web of scratches from pruning the roses that day.
-Phyllis Mayfield, 1999
I bring her plants in bed. Hold her hand. Give her pictures. Play tapes of her and her sisters singing. All in the hopes it will spark the grandma that nourished me my entire life back into this realm. She is here, but she is nowhere. She is going.