Dream in Which My Dead Grandmother Comes Back to Tell Me

that I’ve put on weight, which doesn’t make
any sense, because she also asks me if I’m eating
enough, but then I remember that this is a dream
and my grandmother is dead. And wait, she’s even

wearing pink, her least favorite color, but it counter-
acts the deadish grey hues of her skin. I tell her I’ve been
sewing again—something we used to do together—
but that it’s not the same without her and, oh, I tell her

about the piano. After my senior recital (in which
I performed The Phantom of the Opera) in the Lutheran
Church, she promised me her very own grand piano
(the one grandpa bought her) and I was so happy I almost

screamed YES right there in the pew. But on my grandmother’s
funeral day, my aunt informed me that she will be taking
said grand piano, knowing that it was promised to me.
I tell her how much my mother misses her, how lonely

and childlike she has become. I show her the sweaters
I took from her closet—that I’m scared to wash them
because they still smell just like her and sometimes, I find
her hair on them, and it makes me sad. I tell her about the stories

we shared at her wake, how my sister cried so hard she barely
was able to finish, that we used the last picture she and I took together
as her official funeral photo, and she says yes, I know. I was there. And
I ask how she’s been, and she says, What do you think?

And asks me to turn up the heat.

Andrea Lawler is a poet, essayist, and short story writer. She holds a degree in English Language & Literature. Her poetry collection, Let Me Take You Out of This Town, debuts in February, 2023, from Bullshit Lit. She lives in North Dakota with her three cats.