Even though she is long dead

Comfort may be a cold, rotting hand

After all, it’s my grandmother’s

Even though she is long dead

.

Comfort may be the worn patchwork chair

The one that whines when it rocks

With the moth-eaten holes

But it was my grandmother’s

Even though she is long dead

And even though the chair is at the dump

.

Comfort is the burnt edges of the baking pan

Used to make her famed “chewies”

With fresh pecans from her trees

It took my uncle four Christmases to get the recipe right

Turns out it was the burnt pan that we keep

Even though its owner, she, is long dead

.

I take a bite of this holiday dessert and chew

And think of her and the comfort

I think of the Saturday mornings

Me hiding behind granddaddy’s La-Z-Boy

Listening to the squabble of the soap operas

The squeaking chair rocked

My grandmother blew out tendrils of smoke

.

The days of our lives continued on like sands through the hourglass

It still airs today

Even though she is long dead

.

My granddad hated the doctors when she was alive

They said she didn’t have will enough to fight

For her, life no longer had that comfort

Even he wasn’t enough

It broke his heart

.

I know my mom misses my grandmother’s comfort the most

She looks for it in me, but finds only stone

I hardly remember my grandmother, but I remember her feeling

The wrinkled hands, the aching chair

The smoke floating by the curtained windows

The hazy afternoon light

The burnt pan, the silly soaps

The comfort

Even though she is long dead