Doctors ripped open my great grandmother’s flesh; removed fifteen lumps from her breast, then declared that she would never see her ninetieth birthday as there remained nothing more that they could do.

Their declaration gave her twenty-three days to sift through decaying brain cells to find moments of time that revealed why she was permitted to steal oxygen from the more deserving. Twenty-three days to have a lawyer draw up last will and testament so that the government would have no hand in dispersal of what she held dear. Twenty-three days to determine where these meager belongings of hers should find a home; loved ones to honor with mementos of well spent years being herself; their moments of her time. Twenty-three days to do so much that had been left undone and things dreamt of, but never achieved or realized.

Her eyes scanned us as we wept inside reality’s grasp. She waved us closer; the bed now surrounded like platinum and brass emblem decorated casket going to ground. Doctor in preacher’s stance ready to console with sorrowful prayers, she spoke with roaring meekness, “don’t think you can tell me when I will go on to meet my savior. HE may know the time, but I know my mind and it tells me that sand still sifts through my hourglass. So dry it up.”

Today, framed by magic glow of ninety-seven candles, she smiles. She winks then blows out dancing flames one by one. We ask what she wished and with petite laughter she replies, “I’ll be here.”

© 2002 Sirrus Poe

Sirrus Poe lives amongst the piney woods of Northeast Texas attempting to capture life through words and art. His poems, essays, short stories and photography have appeared, or will, in numerous online and print magazines such as KEN*AGAIN, DARE MAGAZINE, DECOMPOSITIONS, MiPO and APHELION.