I'm the last one, she thinks.
All the rest of them dead,
and gone as if they'd never lived;
living now only in her mind.
I'm the last one, she thinks.
Parents, aunts, uncles, neighbors,
teachers, Fathers and Formidable Nuns
have all passed to their reward.
I'm the last one, she thinks.
Baby brother, older sister,
all the bright, laughing siblings:
gone. She carries their memories.
I'm the last one, she thinks,
seeing girlfriends and schoolmates,
the young brides, the new fathers;
the joys and heartaches of marriage.
I'm the last one, she thinks,
recalling how they began to fade;
the shock when the first one died.
"Don't leave!" she cries once more, in pain.
I'm the last one, she thinks.
"Spacing out again, Gram?"
teases a rough, young voice.
It's the big, redheaded one - son? grandson?
I'm the last one, she confesses.
"No way!" he laughs. "You're the first!"
As she watches, they gather, smiling:
her children, her grandchildren, and their babies.
"Tell us a story, Gram,"
pleads a small one with yellow hair.
-Kathleen O'Shea
page started: 05/14/00
page updated: 10/18/01
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THE LAST ONE