December 25th, 2023, North Vancouver.

On Christmas Day,
my Sister and I sit on the carpeted floor of our Mother’s bedroom.
The walls wooden, the rain dancing on the roof. There’s laughter down the hall.

Together, the three of us sort my Grandmother’s belongings.
Rosaries, Claddagh ring, cashmere scarves, clover pins, the prayer book kept at her bedside.
My Mother thumbs the words she read in last days, last hours.
Lipstick curved to fit her lips, cameras full of images from a previous decade.
I’m 13 and wide-eyed.

I sit crosslegged. Where her voice strains, I stroke my thumb along the back of my Mother’s hand.
With final breaths, my Grandmother carried out this last action,
her fingers brushing upon the knuckle of my Aunt.

Back and forth,
sweaters and chains.
Back and forth,
chains and scarves.
Back and forth. A box contains its relics
my heart shudders under this grief; for a woman
of whom I derive. Her joy, her fear, her colours,
her gold, her singing voice, her cry;
they extend by the ends of my hair
the tears by my cheek.