Sitting Shiva

The Jewish cemetery
is the one with the small round rocks
lined up on the gravestones.
I walk between the rows
of stones upon stones
and I count the small round rocks.

At the house of my grandmother,
we sit and breathe together,
close to the floor, to remember:
We all return to the earth.

On the smallest scale of life,
our matter is wild and battered
by constant collisions and blows
that we cannot perceive.
We pretend to believe
we are calm and quiet and still
and not overflowing
with raging Brownian motion.

My grandmother lies in bed.
I, the youngest grandchild,
am allowed to run
and to color with blue markers.
When I pick up a hard-boiled egg
it turns purple in my hand.