The Week My Grandmother Died

The Week My Grandmother Died

I screamed at my mum to get the car, and carried my grandmother down the stairs.

I prayed for the first time in a over a decade, to a god that I don’t believe in.

I muffled violent sobs with a beach towel in the back yard. I did not go to the beach.

I consoled my mother outside a public restroom, in rural Spain, in the middle of the night.

I heard my grandmother wheezing every time I closed my eyes.

Family members fought to feed us. We ate roast chicken all week.

I saw my granddad cry for the first time in my life.

Our flight was three hours delayed and when we landed it was too late.

A doctor said that if we had rang an ambulance, she may have survived.

I did not cry at the funeral. I did not feel I had the right.

By Romina Writes

She/Her Made In Portugal Based in Manchester, UK Bilingual BA Creative Writing @ UoB Poet/Fiction Writer/Freelance Editor Sub-editor for The Bolton Review issues 7 & 8. 'Half Moon' selected for The New Writing Showcase 2019. ‘Trouble’ and ‘If I Knew Then What I Know Now’ selected for The New Writing Showcase 2020.


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