Good health is a funny thing. People wish her well,

And laud and glorify her wellbeing at 93.

My begrudging smile, a disguise for the things they do not know

Sleepless nights. Moments rare when she remembers me.

Incessant wailing and hysteria. Her nails dig deep into my skin,

Challenging my every effort to placate her.

No longer the grandma who raised me, whilst my parents toiled at work

She may not remember me, but remember I do. Is that a good thing?

Nostalgia is the devil. My parents argue over a sleeping pill.

To give or not to give, peace over morality? Let her age, they say,

Without drugs, without the burden to conform or behave

But she wails, she suffers, except when asleep. While we hold on to nostalgia.