After she asks about her great-grandson,
hearing the details of our baby’s growth –
if he started to crawl, which foods he likes –

my grandma says in a tentative voice
she hopes I can still be a pallbearer 
at her funeral service when she dies.  

Ninety-five years old, death weighs on her –
frankly, it’s been on her mind a long time –
and though the message is only implied, 

the thought of me with other family 
walking beside her casket on its way
to burial must be a comfort to her.

But it’s a lot to carry all at once:
the joy and wonder of raising our son,
the prospect of losing my grandmother

who has been a presence in my life 
since I was a baby myself, wrapped up
in a blanket on her lap, unaware
of the role I would play many years later.