Beatriz Victoria Emilia sits, concrete table
convincing her grandson her life wasn't more than a fable
she told me the accident left her less than able
and she'd rather be forgotten than have us remember she wasn't that stable
and i asked her of the colour of my grandfather's eyes
she told me i carried them deep from inside
it was the spoke of the spark that made her feel alive
and the demons that tugged at the fabric that lined
her faded shirt and pastel pants
from a particular shade of green and pink that didn't match
and i told her the beauty she made was enough
and i know that it hurt and the drugs made it tough
i remember fondly the last time that all of us spoke
the mother, the sister and me and we'd joke
about the vibrancy left in her lungs and we'd hope
she'll realize soon that there's so much that she meant
and i think of the thank you cards now won't be sent
for monetary gifts in innapropriately low increments
a twenty first birthday card and a five dollar check
tell your friends your old grandmother bought you a round
and you're damn right i did and the memories drowned
inside of my gullet and i promptly forgot
the thank you card and a chance that i shot
i could've reminded you that you mattered somehow
it would've helped you fight if i only reached out
but the absesses spread leaving nothing but doubt
and now in the midsts of the springtime droubt
Beatiz Victora Emilia whispers and shouts
your name isn't forgotten, but the obituary didn't get out
so you haunt future generations in dreams that don't count
and when i woke up it felt even more like before
like the dreams that i had that came true and i swore
i had seen those green pants somewhere back in the day
and that ugly pink shirt i just wished i could say
you made my mother before the world made you a wretch
and if i had ever seen your insides i know i would catch
interests and memories and things we could speak of
instead your voice is silent and only now i feel love
somewhere in the abyss you are sending a signal to me
to be alive and be smart and be good and act freely
the messages in dreams are more lucid than reality
and i'm listening and thinking
even though i can't put my ears on the tombstone
you didn't want the memories, unburied and alone
ashes around swirling back like the wind
i am listening, i'm listening
why couldn't we talk like that when you were still here?
nullgrandmothers died every daygrandmothers die every day
ps-my band has songs up at TheLightInTheAttic