She placed the glass in my hand, cool as dawn, her touch so grand —

“Drink, my child, for water is life,” unaware it was my final strife.

By dusk, her chair stood still, the air grew cold, the world grew ill.

Her breath slipped soft into the breeze, leaving me with only memories.

The glass sat empty, water gone, like her, it drifted, then was drawn.

Every day I drink eight, not more, not less, to seal my fate.

Each drop, a stone within my chest, each swallow, a silent, mournful quest.

The ocean hums her name in waves, each one recedes, yet never fades.

I wade through tides of love and loss, each wave a whisper, every toss.

Soft ripples sing what water knows— love endures, though time may close.

Rest in peace, my grandmother dear, your absence is the silence I fear.

And when I see your picture, I weep, filling a glass with tears I keep.

I hope they turn to water clear, for you to offer, once more, my dear.

But this time, I won’t drink it, no, I’ll save it, as a gift to show,

for had I known it was my last, I would have treasured it, held it fast.

Even if stranded in the desert’s heat, I wouldn’t drink, though thirst would greet.

For if I knew that was goodbye, I’d let it sit, and never dry.