Saturday, November 3rd
By Emily Ferris
Ribbon-like, the road cuts up and around the mountain.
We caravan home from the hospital, trailing
the ambulance, our dying grandmother.
It is a warm autumn. Trees rest on the mountain
like an old patchwork blanket, flaming red
and orange squares next to embarrassed
green neighbors waiting for brilliance, a radiant demise.
Black patches, scars from the coal days, reminders of
the mines and the dark hospital room
where we watched her die. Light hurt her eyes.
We slept under coats in turns, waking to the priest’s
anointment. Going up the mountain, I am slow
with little hope left, only gratitude for this
return home. Tell Poppy we said hi, kisses on the
paper-thin flesh, and she is gone upon arrival.
Emily Ferris attends Guilford College, studying French and Health
Sciences. She is from Pennsylvania, but spends her summers in the
Catoctin Mountains, working as a camp counselor.
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