After seeing you inside your coffin,
it dawned on me how small you were.
I had already noticed, the last time we were together,
how you had grown smaller than I am.
And I—playful and childish still—
spoke to you not like a grandmother,
but like an old friend.
Not old with age, but old with time,
someone I'd known for as long as I could remember.
But as time passed, and I lived through every fleeting moment,
those memories felt like
mere passing thoughts—
barely worth remembering.
I can hardly recall
how each time we met,
your gaze seemed to look higher and higher,
while I was always distracted,
sometimes catching your tired eyes,
eyes that held worries
over things I didn’t understand.
Maybe one of those worries
was about what I’d eat for dinner
when I got home.
Oh! How I wish I could’ve counted more
of your white hairs—uban—
that you always asked me to pluck.
And I, the loved and privileged,
was always too lazy to do it.
Now I adore white hairs—
partly because you had them,
partly because I believed people with white hair
could do magic.
A childhood whim, I know,
but I still try to honor it.
Because you did have powers:
sorcery, secrets,
a kind of quiet magic.
Yet no matter how great those were,
they cannot be boxed
in the coffin you lie in now.
You're a treasure locked in a chest
far too small for your worth.
And no matter how tall or grown I’ve become,
I know you never saw me
as someone high up.
To you,
I will always be your little grandchild—
misguided, precious,
ever so fragile.
And I failed to mirror to you
just how deeply you loved me.
Your coffin is simply too small and tight
for the vastness
of who you really are.
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