The Hardest Part

By Katie Holtmeyer

pick up the phone with blurry eyes and barely recognize
the voice that’s speaking say please, Grandma, breathe
you’re scaring me you know
I wouldn’t let anything or anybody hurt you there’s not 
much you can do you forget how scary it is
when she talks to the air
addresses people that aren’t there
can’t seem to remember when or where
until the good moments come sprinkled in like clarity 
but she was just here but she was but she’s not now
she’s squinting she’s looking around
trying to figure her surroundings out
trying to remember her own house
trying to fit you now
into a time in her life from before you were even born like 
starting out with the skeleton of one puzzle and trying
to finish with pieces from a different box
she can’t just she can’t just turn it off
no matter how much I want her to
the second guessing, hesitating, pausing
between words so long the spaces fill the room
until you can’t breathe until 
you can’t see her struggling 

so you snap

because you forgot for a second
that she can’t help it that she’s not who she used to be she’s not
pull yourself together and remember all she’s done 
take a breath take her hand hold her gaze
point to the pictures and say
this is your daughter your nephew your friend your sister-in-law
this is your grandson your husband your cousin this is me
this is me this is me please don’t forget
there’s so much to hold onto but the rope’s wearing thin
and each exchange is important
find myself nodding along smoothing over the gaps 
she’s created in our conversations
acting like I understand her narration
because if I don’t 
our talks would be a whole long list of no’s and nobody wants that
and I’d call every week
say I’m just checking to see how she is
is she happy did she eat is she comfortable did she sleep
does she still remember me this new memory’s 
a monster only I can’t open the closet door
pick the comforter up off the floor
prove to myself it isn’t there because 
the scariest monsters are usually the ones you can’t see
don’t even know how to grieve there’s no seven steps 
to follow for the death of a memory

don’t you remember who you are?

don’t you remember how you’d make me breakfast in bed so 
one day I said I’d do it for you too
got up early fixed your coffee except I was too young then
to know the difference between regular between instant
you took a big sip got a mouthful of grounds
and you spit them out and I almost cried
but you smiled and we tried again

don’t you remember how kind you are?
the stories you used to tell? please don’t yell
you’re not mean like this you’re not angry like this 

you’re not

I know you’re still here but I miss you

don’t you remember who you are?

some days I start to think you do
and other days I leave the room
because you seem like an imposter walking 
in my grandma’s shoes and on those days
I don’t know whether the hardest part
is that you don’t remember

or whether the hardest part 
is that I do

Katie Holtmeyer is currently in graduate school at Truman State University, and her work has been published in Pocketfire's Kindling and 3 Moon Magazine. Katie uses she/her pronouns and can be found on twitter at @HoltmeyerKatie.