the songs my grandmother sang

My grandmother used to sing Billy Joel songs to me, 

usually the love songs 

and she would sing 

about a room in a heart like a sanctuary 

not to worship love but to protect it jealously.

My grandmother used to sing Nat King Cole songs to me 

and the look she gave me from the L to the E 

was so pure 

I knew that I was lucky to know love like hers. 

My grandmother used to sing Harry Connick Jr. songs to me, 

and we would drive from New York to Vermont for a weekend 

and I felt so grown up because I was her friend. 

My grandmother used to sing Norah Jones songs to me, 

and I swear to God I could hear her heart break 

over every octave change. 

My grandmother used to sing Michael Bublé songs with me 

and we promised love to each other 

over and over and over 

and that felt like everything. 

One day, she didn’t sing anymore. 

In fact, the radio was off in her car 

and she says it’s because her voice is too old to sing along. 

And I didn’t believe her 

because she is my grandmother 

and my grandmother sings, 

especially jazz. 

At last, 

I sit beside her in church 

waiting for her voice to rise above the rest in clear soprano 

and only then do I know 

what she’s known 

for the past five years: 

Vocal cords age 

and minds wrinkle like skin 

turning to dust before we’re even in 

our graves.

So I sang Billy Joel to myself in my car,

but it’s really to my grandmother.

And soon enough 

she returns to dust, 

singing in glory 

and I keep her in that room in my heart like a sanctuary.