Their reward is <br />they become innocent again, <br /> <br />and when they reappear in memory <br />death has completely erased <br />the blurs, given them boundaries. They rise <br /> <br />and move through their new world with clean, <br />clear edges. My grandmother, in particular <br />has become buoyant, unattached finally <br /> <br />from her histories, from the trappings <br />of family. By no means was she <br /> <br />a good woman. But the dead don't care anymore for that. <br />Weightless, they no longer assume <br />responsibility, they no longer <br /> <br />have bodies. Once, <br /> <br />at the end of August, after swimming <br />in the muddy pond <br /> <br />I'd gone into the living room, cool <br />as vodka, where my grandmother <br />sat. Greed thins a woman, <br /> <br />I remember her rings, bigger <br />than her fingers. <br /> Water ran down my legs <br /> <br />onto the floor becoming slippery <br />and my grandmother, her breath <br />scratchy from cigarettes and blended whiskey, <br /> <br />leaned into my ear and whispered <br />you're an ugly girl. Do I have <br /> <br />to forgive her? My mother tells me <br /> <br />no one ever loved her, <br />so when I see her, I see her again in the park <br />in her pink tailored suit, suede pumps, <br /> <br />I see her moving among the strange <br />gentlemen that have gathered, the dark <br />powerful men. She is still young, blonde <br /> <br />and most of all, she is beyond reach, beautiful.<br /><br />Kate Northrop<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-dead-4/
