The face of a stranger hovers above me,
My dream state ends abruptly,
I find myself ensconced in arms that haven't held me since childhood,
and her thin shoulders are shaking,
burdened by the weight of everyone's problems but her own.

The lines years have carved in her face are thrown into stark relief,
classic candlelight that isn't candlelight at all.
She is my martyr, self-sacrificing to the last,
except for this one last moment:
Shhh, there there.
I won't tell anyone if you won't.

It scared me, being shaken awake by someone who used to hate me,
Terrified me,
but her words chilled me to my core:
My grandmother is gone.

Traipsing through the long, dementedly twisted hallways,
All decorated with white and cheery colors for some reason,
and the scent of roses and gardenia clogs my nose,
sickeningly sweet and a scent I've always associated with death.

The long line parts for me,
and I have a brief vision of red waters before a staff,
a sick, cruel joke,
and then I look down into it,
the upgrade from a pine box.
Glorious Grey was the title,
but I see nothing glorious...
Just a wooden trap,
a sanded-down casket for someone who can't care anymore.

With tender care, unknown before,
I lay a red, red rose on her breast,
and look into the still, cold face of a stranger.
Who was this woman,
that I know and do not,
this woman who was there, but never as well.

She is both Familiar and Unknown,
Family and Other,
and I can't understand why I never knew her before.
Memories that I'd forgotten swim before my eyes,
leaping into the painful bright light,
and I press each one between the pages of my memory,
so many withered flowers.

Returning to a house no longer home,
I wash the tears from my cheeks,
though why I shed them is unknowable to me.
Looking up, I see a heart-shape,
tired grey eyes,
stone canyons that despair and years of hardship have carved
are easily observed, since no mask of youth is thrown on this time.

Who is death to do this to me?
Who is she to take away what I didn't have time for?
Who is she, to place this burden on my shoulders?
I am no Atlas,
I can hold no one's world,
not even my own,
and yet here I am, bearing up everyone,
and trying to find in the mirror my own
because all I can see
is the face of a stranger.