Etta By Katelin Grande
I think I understand the look on my father’s face the first time my daughter says it so plainly:
“Ummmm, I think you’re going to die, Pop-pop.”
She’s not wrong.
The drooping cornstalks, shriveled worms, desiccated leaves.
We talk about dying as change: returning to the earth feeding new growth cycling through seasons.
My love for my daughter is infinite, but I am not.
My skin sags, wrinkles, dries.
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love.
It is hard to think myself a gift to the ground when my feet feel so firm upon it.
I wish I could witness her reimagining of me. All the same, and entirely different.
HVWP COMMONPLACE 76
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