Our Dance

I have the memory of our dance, confirmed with a photograph.

It was sunny, a warm July day with a breeze and a laugh.

Our sandals matched, brown suede and new,

we joined hand in hand, shoe to shoe.

In my long skirt, you gave me a twirl,

I promised to always be grandma's girl.

I shrugged off the thought that you could ever be gone.

After all, that day, it was your grave that we danced on.

Another of your birthdays was at hand,

in my mind you stayed the same, never aging, always grand.

A frigid January day realized the cold reality.

The message was an icicle through my heart, with it's finality.

Without you, what's a grandma's girl to do?

I visit your grave, brought you flowers too.

It's not the same up here, heavy and still,

you are with the others, buried on the hill.

With Grandpa, Great-Aunt Mary, Cousin Nancy,

with your parents and your baby sister too, I fancy.

I'll come and join you also, Grandma, when I get the chance.

Then we can put on our matching shoes, and continue with our dance.

~Kristi Lorene Giuliani Miles (June 2005)