My grandmother transitions. Suddenly.
It scars me.
Stinging me, Immobilized. I’m trapped like Daniel’s friends
With no place to go.
I’m hot, I’m burning…
Fire is beautiful, but it can be destructive.
My grandma was fire, she gave me warmth.
Her homemade cakes held dancing candles,
Flickers of little light.
When it was cold, and dark,
And I had no place to go,
I walked into her warm,
Before I deteriorate from grief,
The Word speaks to me.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ It persuades to me.
Though her name still pinches a small burn,
The spiritual realm provides me with
New Light, a new set of arms to run into.
Fire is destructive, but it can be beautiful...