I call my grandma Nanny
She told me to call her that so she didn't feel old
But to me she never looked old
She looked about in her late fifties or early sixties to my young eyes
We laughed, we danced and read stories
And at bedtime she sang sweet lullaby's
I played dress up with her old clothes and jewelry sets
Her necklaces always dangled down my chest, because it didn't fit just yet
"I'll give this to you when you are grown," she always said
I'm now seventeen
And when I see Nanny it feels blue
I always remember the harsh words she threw
Calling me "useless," and saying that it's because of the phone
Though I was twelve and it made me feel less alone
I remember the times she commented on the food I ate
I can't eat food now without thinking about my weight
It's not her fault she made me feel this way
She was old, sick and could only see grey
But it now consumes me and it won't go away
It lives in my chest
Like the necklace that didn't fit just yet

sometimes i’m asked
about my siblings.
i don’t mention you.
at all.

in that moment,
i’m already lying —
not naming you
with those still living
because the memory
will always sting raw.

it feels like erasing you.
but you don’t exist.
not in the world
they know.
i don’t speak your name
or what i hold back,
in those unsaid words.

i don’t need their sorrys,
their tilted heads,
want to unwrap
the sudden,
the young,
the different.

i do have siblings.
i have a few.

it’s easier this way.

i could talk about you,
attila.
but you’re stitched
into the past,
like an old photo
that the living
don’t get to touch.

it's easier this way.

to carry your presence,
in the sleeve of my heart,
so you never fade.

i got woken up
before the sun could rise.
furniture scraped the floor
as the moving van arrived.

my father shed tears,
kissing the cats goodbye.
i was only seven
when their divorce
was finalised.

the next time
i was eight,
only six months
wiser than before.
my mother said
it was all a mistake —
we couldn’t live
like that anymore.

there were no cats
to bring back.
belongings were sold.
when we moved again,
we snuck out
during the day
so my father wouldn’t know.
it was better that way.

we lived hidden
in a half-house
under a tree,
as if the branches
could smother
the echoes
of the screams.

my brother returned,
shaping a new family
with a girl.
although a bit crowded,
for a moment,
i swear we were happy.

in between the bags
and the weight of living,
i jumped into
the arms of a boy
who gave me an out.
his smile felt like escape,
but left me empty
and dry.

a decade later,
i found a house —
not a house.
a home.
in a country
i was meant for.

they didn’t speak my tongue,
but accepted my love,
even the way i failed
and learnt.
the love was unconditional,
and asked for nothing
in return.

it took sixteen attempts
to find one i could own.
and now that it’s mine,
i never want to leave.

if i made a move,
it might stir the darkness —
the kind that still breathes.

sometimes.

and i need
to let it sleep.

i miss the simple life
in the way we all do.
bringing water
from the well –
the blue one –
at every street corner.
collecting firewood
so the winter stock would last,
toasting bread on the fireplace
brushed with a garlic clove,
and salt.

i remember the signs
in windows,
people selling eggs.
creeping into the barn,
scared of spiders
and chickens,
but still collecting them,
while still warm,
and fresh.

we’d scavenge
at the edge of town –
never allowed,
but we went anyway.
swimming in ***** waters,
slick with chemicals
and gasoline,
we didn’t have allergies
to the world.
just rolled around
in grass and dirt,
not caring
what lay beneath,
or might bite.

once, we let the cat taste
the tomato soup
from my mother’s bowl,
while she was on the loo.
we snickered,
choking on laughter,
watching her savour
every spoonful.
we were partners in crime,
my brother and i.

i even miss the smell
of the old theatre.
its worn-out curtains
heavy with nerves
as we danced,
competed,
recited poems,
pretended to be
one of the great
figures of the past,
and lay on the cold,
hardwood floor,
covered in dust.

i could list
these memories for ages.
what it felt like
to be a child.
weightless.
magical.
curious,
and bright.
i wanted to grow up
too quickly.
when i should
have held on tight.

You chose to move on
and I respect that.
I’m sorry—
truly, deeply sorry—
for destroying us.

I miss us.
I miss the love
that was more attachment
and dependence
than anything else,
but still—
it was something.
It was family.

Chain-link clatters,
her small pickup nosing through.
We’re here for a refrigerator,
her new apartment,
first time I’m meeting anyone in her family.
She’s beautiful,
nervous in the passenger seat,
told me her brother used to be a skinhead.
Now: better, odd jobs,
an Asian wife.

Sparse walls, half an office building
pretending to be a home.
A baby crawls on the kitchen floor.
Mei: tired eyes, lipstick,
business suit sharp for work.

Her brother just waking up,
empty malt liquor cans,
talking too fast,
about jobs, about not sleeping.
I’ve seen this math before:
people who struggle to get their life straight,
their day straight, their time straight.

The fridge is light as air,
a few condiments rattling inside.
We slide it out:
black square on the linoleum.
The square bursts,
roaches bloom and scatter at my feet.

Think: pick up the baby.
Mei already has her,
no expression,
like this scene’s happened
a hundred times before.

"We’ll keep the fridge outside,
- just a day,
use boric acid, no smell."
I smile when I say it,
like I’m just talking about a squeaky hinge.
Inside it, insects crawl around the compressor.
My girlfriend looks down.

Fifteen years from now:
A faraway post online,
in memoriam,
her brother beaten to death.
The baby, the family, now
gone from the map of my life.

Only the black square remains,
still crawling
in the back of my mind.

voices emerged from the garden
as i walked past the stairs.
i didn’t know what i was doing —
intruding
on something private,
breaking the atmosphere
of an afternoon meant
for softness, and quiet.

i overheard my neighbour ask
when i’m coming home again.
my mother, oblivious,
said i’d be here for christmas.

she stopped dead
in her tracks
as my voice came out —
hi.
too loud.

no one said a word.
she looked at my father,
about to cry.
our neighbours glanced
at each other,
then rose from their chairs.

a dog, i realised,
was licking my hand.

surprise.

Your favorite flower, A rose
Your Favorite Color, Purple
I don’t know many of your favorites,
And I know I should.

Your favorite movies are scattered,
Your jokes are messy, but laughable.
Your humor is odd,
And your taste in food is somewhat chilling.

I’ll have Purple Roses on my back,
Because I’ll always know you have it.
You’ll always help me when I need it most.
And For that, I know and appreciate it.

I’ll always have yours, no matter the cause,
For you’re my Dad, and I’ll always love you so.
Purple roses on my right,
For you’ll always be Right by my side.
Your favorite quotes, Lined up, Side by Side.
No matter how long,
I have to sit in a chair, needles of ink,
Poking into me.

I’d do anything you ask,
Even if I’m forgetful,
So please Dad,
Always be by my side.

Your family is complicated,
And sometimes you make me mad,
But that’s okay, because I know,
I make you just as mad.

My life choices,
And the habits I’ve picked up,
Aren’t always good ones,
Lord knows you know.

But I know, I can always count on you.
To be Right by my side,
Your hand on my shoulder,
Pushing me through,
All the tough times,
Reassuring me, That you’re proud,
And You love me much.

That no matter what I do,
You’ll always be there.
That you’re so glad you had me,
And that You’ll never regret,
Marrying mom, no matter how crazy she was,
Because my sister and I, came out of it.

Purple roses, on my right shoulder,
Your favorite quotes, side by side.
May the force be with you,
Just like I know you’ll always be.
No matter where you are,
Or Where I might be.

I know I can call you,
And You’ll always pick up.
Because, You’ll always be there,
Right by my side.

I love you, Dad,
And I hope you know.
I’ll never forget,
Where you’ve gone, or where you’ve been.

Purple roses,
For your favorite flower,
And your favorite color.
Because you should know,
You’ll always be my favorite parent.

The one who showed me,
The meaning of unconditional love,
That no matter what I do,
You’ll always be right by my side.

I’m scared to move on,
And grow up,
Because I know deep down,
It means giving you up.
I only have one father,
And I don’t want to lose you.

So I’ll have your favorites,
Permanently inked, on my right shoulder.
Because that way,
You’ll always be right by my side.

You lived long,
And fought hard.
Purple roses, and blue skies.
Thunder clouds and crying eyes.

Your two daughters love you much,
Though yet, they say it little.
I wish you knew how much,
I need you.
No matter how old I get.

I’m not ready to lose you.
Please don’t forget.
For my father is you,
I’ll never be ready,
So please, don’t leave yet.

You’ve told us what we are to do,
When you pass on, whether it is up,
Or whether it is down.
You’re to become Ash.
And we’re to spread, you all across,
Some beautiful place.

Yet I’m so sure,
I’ll never truly let go, of even
Just a piece, of your soul.
Whether it be encapsulated ash,
Or maybe your cologne.
I’ll never forget
The love you gave.

So please,
For you’re my father,
And I’m not ready yet.
Please don’t let go,
Please keep awake,
Please, for I beg.
I’m not ready yet.

For you’re my father,
And I want to see you grow old,
I want to see, your hair go white,
And your bald spot grow.
I want you to see my white dress,
And walk me down the aisle.
I want you to see my future,
Wherever it may lead.

I want my father there.
So please, I’m not ready yet.
Don’t go.
Don’t speak of it.
Your health declines,
And that scares me so,
Please, Don’t go.

I’m not ready yet.
I’ll never be ready, I’m so sure.
I’ll keep a piece of you,
Forever more.
For you’re my father. And I love you so.
I may not say it much.
But I do very much.

I’ll never be ready, to see you go,
I’ll bury an empty casket,
Just so I have a place to go.
Whenever I need you around,
Please,
Dad,
I’m not ready yet.

You talk of your death,
Often still,
As if you’re preparing to go,
But I’m not ready yet.
And I can’t let you go.

Please, Father I beg.
I’m not ready yet.
So please, Just stay awhile,
And watch us grow.