Read by the author.
My grandmother died the day
the missionaries came for our souls.
To save them, I mean.
They cycled up the drive
as my mother and I carried her to the van,
on our way to the hospital.
We didn’t hear their rattling till they dismounted,
we were so bent on moving her
without pain.
Their hands waved hello.
There was nothing
for the bicycles to do,
so I looked at the wheels
not the missionaries, who asked,
Do you have a source of happiness in your life?
What was my answer, what is it now?
My grandmother swayed
like a hammock between us, then stilled.
They sprang to help.
Bicycles clattered on asphalt—
Did we use dogwood switches? Did we use stones?
This is drawn from “Grand Tour.”
