In this death, a house my grandmother never lived in. Someone at her bedside who isn’t anyone. Someone weeping who is either my grandmother or someone she does not know. A book slides from a shelf. A young woman in high heels is holding an apple, wind in her scarf, black hair of youth. In the final moments, she does not know herself. The bed dislodges from the tile and wheels across the oriental rug. Tassels flutter in the breeze her passing body makes. Where are you going and when you get there will you recognize its face? A Christmas tree in every room. And the sound of a train blazing the tightrope strung across the Susquehanna to the other side, just like that, smooth as can be.