Hot Irons and Locked Doors

(To My Grandma Noble diagnosed with cancer)
She lies between life and death.
breath in... breath out... hold.
She inhales the warmth around her
while her body grows weak and cold.
Is there something she forgot?
Did she turn off the iron?
Did she lock the door tight?
but... that doesn't matter... when you're dying,
lying in a bleach white bed
the white walls encompassing.
Gasping for unwanted air,
just praying God'll set her free,
but she doesn't want to leave
so she holds on tight,
"Let me see them one more time
before I call it a night."
Hold my hand and tell me you'll be okay.
Tell me it doesn't hurt that bad.
Tell me that you can stay.
Tell me anything so I won't get sad.
At first, I thought.
"Everybody dies,"
but then I found out
I'm still going to cry.
I don't want you to leave
I'm not ready yet
just give God a rain date
but I can just bet
it'll be better where you're going
no more pain
no more not knowing
if the iron is off,
if the door's locked tight.
Things like that won't matter
where you're going.
Things like that don't matter
now that you're going.