My Momma told me this,
"Be strong for your Dad."
So I stood tall, strong for him.
The day Grandpa died.

I put on my snow pants,
I was just a kid,
And walked out into the cold.
Only then, I cried.

I walked alone, through snow.
I barely minded.
Everything was cold that day.
I thought about him.

Larry was a good man.
He liked photographs,
And  he taught me how to wink.
Grandma loved him much.

I walked quite far that day,
Before coming home.
I wanted to be alone.
I had to be strong.

On the day Grandpa died,
I didn't eat much.
But I stood tall for my dad.
The day his dad died.

when I ask myself
what I am
I am not sure I know the answer

a ‚mature‘ man
of 70 plus

grandpa
of 11 grandchildren

yesterday‘s
person of authority

mentor for young ones
still looking for themselves

all of the above
or none of it

in the end only those
who read these lines
decide

4/3/18 - Started dating my boyfriend
2/5/09 - The day I lost my best friend (Grandpa)
9/16/17 - The day my dad and step mom got married
7/16/18 @ 3:35pm - The day I might lose my other best friend

In Grandma’s kitchen,
There’s the old raggety rocker,
The one that always tips back too far
And my heart skips a beat as I
Secretly enjoy the thrill.
In Grandma’s kitchen,
There’s the mounds of old recipes on
The counter, yellowing with age, being
Ripped from ancient editions of
House and Home magazines.
In Grandma’s kitchen,
There’s the constant pleasant aroma of
Cookies, chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin
And snickerdoodle, the presence of cookie
Jars that are quickly ransacked by us.
In Grandma’s kitchen,
There is the collection of teapots on
The shelf, the daily weather forecast that
Grandpa writes out every day on the table,
The forest of palms and tiger lilies in the center.
In Grandma’s kitchen,
Time seems to stand still, and everything
Is perfect, familiar, right.
Even when the room itself doesn’t belong to
Her anymore, it will always be to me
Grandma’s kitchen.

When you left, despite me knowing you'd leave, the shock was still apparent.

The bedroom light is left on.
I take melatonin to fall asleep.
My stomach is always empty despite eating.
I fixate on your last breath.
Your chest rising.
Your chest falling.
Your quiet little sigh.
Your face tensing and then relaxing.
I make a mini shrine on my dresser out of your pictures.
I call my dad and realize that's gone too.
I dream of roads I've never traveled on.
I dream of flying to Texas and leaving here forever.
I dream of escaping.
The house is empty.
No one tells you of the shock or the trauma.
You just understand, that as soon as you can comprehend it, Death is for us all--young and old, terminally ill and seemingly perfectly healthy, parent or child, high school alumni or dropout, wife or fiance, girlfriend or best friend, young and old

I keep wilting carnations in my room.
Anything with an expiration date reminds me of the loss.
I try to remember your commanding voice and your loud laughter.
I try to love.
I try to care.
I keep your pictures to remember your face before...you changed.

Now all I try to forget are the changes.
I try to forget you saying you weren't hungry.
Your food scraping off the plate into the garbage.
You saying you weren't hungry.
You sleeping in until 10am.
How you used to get up at 6am sharp every morning.
You saying you weren't hungry.
You not talking anymore.
You...emaciated and frail.
You...changing.
Your pain.
The sound of the concentrator humming.
The mechanical noises of the defibrillator and its exhausted sigh.
You saying you weren't hungry anymore.
Your last breath.
Your quiet little sigh.
Your serene smile.
Everything was so tired, grandpa.
Everything was so tired...