Grief

I was having a sandwich.
Ham, and gouda cheese. Milk
filming the glass, the sun bright
on the table, sparking on my knife.
My throat closed. I left my meal, went
into the living room to lay
on the floor and let the cat lick
my salty cheeks.

My grandmother used to cut
the crusts off, the milk was whole
and creamy. The vinyl tablecloth,
brown and yellow daisies, the underside
soft as kitten chin. I remember
I once took a pair of her earrings from
a velvet box, put them in my pocket.
When my mother asked, she said
she'd given them to me. That kind
of love, forgiving
everything.