a poem a day for a year #131

by Amy Turn Sharp


I talk to my grandmother every day on the telephone
sometimes it is the same conversation
just tweaked by the slightest changes in weather
or the background noises
dishes banging
the house screaming
she always laughs
I have to yell into the small phone
everything
it's exhausting without hearing aids
but I don't mind
I have my habits
I like to stand at the window
pull at my lip
tell her I love her
last
always last
make her hang up the phone first
and almost every single day
I whisper things to her
that she can't hear
before I hang up
contrition
confessions
all the things that are bad
from me to her
it's not a gift