every year my grandmother passes

Not the anniversary of her passing,
but her birthday.

But isn’t it funny—her passing was my grandfather’s birthday.
Oh, I suppose not funny,
but if we don’t laugh we cry,
and sometimes we do both at the same time.

It depends on how many tissues are left.
Usually there aren’t many—allergies.

But her birthday, it’s the beginning,
we miss and we long and we miss.

And sometimes,
I catch the clocks eye at 11:11 and make a little wish,
that she hears me
that she loves me
that all those shivers down my spine are just her,
giving a pat.

1/6/2021