My Grandpa’s Last Picture

Even though he hadn’t seen the sun in seven years,

his face was slightly red, as if he was outside just

a little too long. He had the skin of a baby, silky

smooth and was freshly shaved. Thin black hair,

never went grey, recently combed and trimmed.

He normally wore a white undershirt, but he was

only in a diaper, covered by the thin bed-sheet up

to his chest. The only other adornments were

the napkin under the chin and the oxygen tubes

leading to the nostrils. His frame now small,

the muscles withered, no more bloated stomach.

Head leaned to one side, he was peacefully sleeping.

Chin and neck sagged. Lips pouted as usual.

Blackened ear wasn’t noticeable. Neck couldn’t

support his head anymore. Sixteen years with Alzheimer’s,

his brain disintegrated and reformed. A newborn

who would sleep for days. A newborn who couldn’t

cry, couldn’t smile, couldn’t laugh, couldn’t think.

Caleigh Shaw is a poet from Canton, Georgia. She is currently an MFA candidate at Oklahoma State University, where she is an Editorial Assistant at the Cimarron Review. She received her BA in Writing & Linguistics from Georgia Southern University and is the 2015 Brannen Creative Writing, Nonfiction Award winner. When she’s not working or writing, you may find her watching historical dramas or reality tv shows and snuggling with her cat.