Her People

I’m a foreigner, though, I call her grandma. I sit with her, feed her, hold her hand, calm her, take walks with her, and used to care for her. But, my face will never be familiar and though my presence may be enough, it will never fully be comforting.

She wants you, her people. You, her sons, her closest family of whom she raised. You, who appear in antique photos adorning the walls of her home. You, whom were never just once her babies; you will always be her babies. She wants you, not me, the one who visits her most often.

So, why do you retreat? Why do you fear this ailing being who only wants to spend time with you? Because the person you once knew as her, isn’t her anymore. The her you knew remembered you. You fear the situation, not the human.

Dare I say go anyway? Go see your mother, because she lights up when she sees you, once you remind her who you are. Because you, her people, are mending her aching heart. You, her people, are saving her from dying in misery. And you, her people, are enough to fully comfort her.

To you, her people, I do speak. As the years press onward, remember one thing. I will be there in your ailing time, because, I am, your people.

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