losing my grandfather

he stops breathing

a cloud of nightmare swarms around my head

creating moments so unreal and silent

the loudest silence i’ve ever heard

3 hours after falling asleep, i wake up

choking on truth

reality squirming into every pore

i cry and whimper, hard

i remember the way he answered the phone

i remember the poster on his door with the chimpanzee that said, “I am old. Please hug me.”

and i get frustrated at a little pom-pom creature i’m trying to glue together

his legs won’t stay on

he keeps falling apart

i remember sitting in his hot car, because he was always cold, and i listened to his stories, sweating and wishing for freedom from the heat, but not wanting to leave until the story was over

even after he couldn’t drive anymore, he still told me his stories

the names were often wrong

the events were often scrambled

but it didn’t matter

i knew what he meant

now i drive his car

the unbearable heat is gone

but the stories still remain

sometimes i feel numb

sometimes i feel everything

i don’t know which feels worse

4 thoughts on “losing my grandfather

  1. Been there. In fact, one year ago this week. I still can’t fully grasp that my kids aren’t going to have any memories of their own of him. They should. He was worth it.

    It’s hard to believe that grandparents disappear on us, just as we’re getting old enough ourselves to know what we should have asked while we could.

    Can’t tell how long ago this poem might have been created… but still, hang in there. We’re thinking about ya. :/

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