MY LAST MEMORY OF HER

I’ve never known her sparse, sunflower hair to be this shiver white.
She grips the silent cigarette between French tips, cane bearing her
muted frame, shuffling toward the Cavalier buried under decayed leaves.
Crouched crescent over the steering wheel, door open, she starts the car
but doesn’t touch the clutch. Play Elton John. I load the sheer disc.
Her wisteria voice wavers along with “Benny and the Jets.”
Eyes scrunched, exhaling waning lyrics, she tamps out embers, an ode
to her diagnosis. I shoulder what’s left of her weight as we walk
the jade path to the hospice. With panting breath, my grandmother whispers,
I’ll see you soon.

Ebani Filbert holds a B.A. in English from the University of Nebraska at Omaha. She minored in Creative Writing and Journalism & Media Communications. She served on the staff of 13th Floor Magazine for three publications. Her creative nonfiction piece “The ACT: A Test of You” was published in 13th Floor Magazine in 2023.