by Taylor Frost
My great-grandmother is lucid
for the first time in days.
She is nestled in her chair in the living room,
my mother by her side, feeding her
popcorn from a cupped palm, dropping
it into her bird-like mouth
piece by piece.
She looks at my mother, “I’m ready,”
she whispers. “Dress me in a long purple skirt
and push me from the window
so that I can finally fly, fly, fly.”
My mother begins to cry,
they both turn their heads,
look at me.
I say nothing,
but I wonder what it must be like to look forward
and see nothing but light.
Taylor Frost is a poet located in Central Virginia, where she spends time with her young son, reading, drinking iced coffee, and exploring. She received her Bachelor’s in English from Hollins University. She has been previously published in Whurk Magazine, Artemis Journal, and Gravel.