By Katherine K. Lovelace (Harken)

As told to me by my mother, Lora Kerns

Grandma lay upon her bed—she seemed to be asleep,

I tiptoed from her room to freshen up and sweep,

So restlessly she slept, her breathing very slow,

I debated with myself if I should really go.

Grotesque upon her dresser, her silent dentures lay,

Nearby, a fresh picked rose Bill had brought today,

Calista, at ninety-six, had never lost her pride,

Would not approve, if knowingly, her teeth were laid aside.

Proud as a prima-donna whose wants are not forbid,

Precise in female vanity, touched everything she did,

St. Peter or St. Gabriel might raise a saintly brow,

If Calista entered toothless to make her curtain bow.

Just then I heard a tapping sound, the scraping of a chair,

I hurried to Grandma's side; she lay so peaceful there,

Hands crossed upon her breast, a gentle smiling face,

Calista Danner Cooley, in God's Eternal Grace.

Her last act done triumphantly, dramatic to the end,

Her dentures now were in her mouth, the rose within her hand.