On the last night of the year, I turned eighteen
I dreamt of my grandfather.
Dead nearly a dozen years then,
More now.
That fraction of him in my life growing ever scarcer.
He was there, real as the sun and the moon and the stars,
In a white, gleaming city on the hill.
And I heard his voice so clear,
Just as I remembered
From memories of old family moves,
Memories of memories,
Honey diluted into water.
And maybe his face was not his real face.
Just a scrapbook of photographs
I had no part in.
I was young and carefree then,
And did not bother myself with remembering.
Memory is a burden I am not fit for carrying.
Time bleeds me.
Don’t hold onto me.
I can’t hold onto anything.
Jan 2
Jan 2, 2026 at 7:28 AM UTC
On the last night of the year, I turned eighteen
I dreamt of my grandfather.
Dead nearly a dozen years then,
More now.
That fraction of him in my life growing ever scarcer.
He was there, real as the sun and the moon and the stars,
In a white, gleaming city on the hill.
And I heard his voice so clear,
Just as I remembered
From memories of old family moves,
Memories of memories,
Honey diluted into water.
And maybe his face was not his real face.
Just a scrapbook of photographs
I had no part in.
I was young and carefree then,
And did not bother myself with remembering.
Memory is a burden I am not fit for carrying.
Time bleeds me.
Don’t hold onto me.
I can’t hold onto anything.
