Second Helping

When Little Grandma died
for the second time,
she was ready,
her body barely a ripple
in the electric blanket.

The first time,
she sat up in her deathbed,
pried open a tiny gold vault
in back of the crucifix
in the puddle 
of rosary beads in her lap,
and swallowed the relic inside,
a thread of Christ’s garment,
which she swore
saved her life.

But by the second time,
dementia had knit her past
and present together
into a one-armed sweater,
and Little Grandma prayed
there would be no second helping,
that she might go in peace.