As my brother and I drove away from my grandmother’s funeral he asked me if maybe grandpa called her “Anne” instead of “grandma” was because he didn’t remember who we were.

I think I’ve cried more about Hannah than I did at my grandma’s funeral. Which is kinda ****** up cause Hannah isn’t dead she just doesn’t want to date me anymore.

So I feel like kind of an *******.
I’m kind of an *******.

Hannah’s not her real name.

I have this blanket. On my bed. My grandma crocheted it for me – to give to me on my wedding day.

I’m not married.  
You could probably guess that.

And my grandma is dead now.
You could probably guess that too.

The blanket sleeps on my bed.
My bed sleeps in my memories of
where Hannah used to lay.
Soft slumber and figures puzzling together in the warm darkness – thick with breath
The blanket following the soft curves of her body and now I’m thinking of my naked ex and dead grandma in the same sentence and we should change the subject.

My grandparents slept in separate beds and I always thought that was weird.
Grandma was like peanut butter on homemade bread
The fancy peanut butter. Not that Jiffy crap.

It was the bread that made the difference.
give a loaf of it to each family for Christmas
My cousin got the recipe but she doesn’t make it right.

We made ramen once. Hannah and I, not me and my grandma. We didn’t use a recipe and the eggs made her sick.

I had a cold when I hugged my grandma and I fear it made her sick.

She died two days later.

Grandma once said you’re never too old to hug your grandparents.

my brother does this thing where he siphons the stories from someone. Usually old people because they have the best stories

I drive through the old homestead – the fog of my emotions

Have of my memories

My father does this thing where he holds his little hands at his waist, twisting them inside one another

We are three generations eating dominoes pizza

Defined by death and divorce – not there and not existing yet
My grandfather is 90. He is stories made flesh and my brother pulls at them like a rope from a,

Well,

Because he has discovered the census data for Ham Lake from 1940

My grandfather tells stories of the missing generation

His father – can’t work because he’s a welfare brat

His mother died young

Stepmother an angel – gave him socks when his father was crying because they cut him off

My father – tells underbreath mumbles of lost arguments and lost respect – he gives me socks for Christmas

Father drank a lot. You get to pick who I’m talking about. Maybe alcoholism skips a generation. If so I fear for my children.

Grandpa joined the navy. His father got a job – everyday worked it through sickness and in health – a marriage of money and mind because the paycheck meant freedom and freedom meant everything

He finds his dad at work – navy uniform coated in the expectations of his brothers.

“So you went and did it.”

The story kind of trails off there, the way old people stories do. Kind of like young person poems

I helped my dad set up the TV we got him for Christmas

Because he never used the guitar center gift card from last year.

am i stoic
for not feeling anything when in the presence of death
for not feeling anything when knowing it was his last breath
am i sick
for my heart not enduring pain
for my heart disconnecting with my brain
is it heroic
for my own body not to go through the stages
for my own body to be trapped in its plentiful cages
will it click
that he's actually gone
that i should be drawn
to it?

Tonight you are off, far away,
you've left this place,
left a space in hearts that hurts,
though you intend it not.
Your grand daughter is in knots.
Please appear in her dreams,
tell her all the things you love about her,
let her wake, a deep breath
to calm quaking hands,
and feel you smiling,
sipping tea,
happy to have been her grandpa.
She loves you endlessly...

Mom
Is the one who
  Sacrificed her comfort
   For 9 months for me.
    She taught me
     To play, cook,
      And be a good person.

Max
Is the brother
  I've had since age four
   Often annoying, but
    Still so sweet
     The best brother
      I could ask for.

Babcia
Is the grandmother
  Who has been making
   Some of the best food
    In the family
     She's kind and sweet
      And I love her to bits.

Grandma and Grandpa
Are the grandparents
  I couldn't thank enough
   For all they've done.
    Together, we
     Celebrate
      Party
      Love
     Enjoy
    Our time
   Together
  I wish it
Wouldn't end.

Dad
Is the father who...

...

Gave me half his DNA?
I guess?

...

Poem's over, bye!

His legs are hairless.
He's the strongest man I know.
Inside his mind he's 18 again, trapped in a constant battle against a now aged enemy.
He's a father, grandfather even.
He sits with his back to the exit, making sure he can protect us.
He is haunted but proud.
He came home on ships full of broken toy soldiers, wound tight and released into an unknown land.
They returned him in less than pristine conditions, cracked and frayed from a war they did not ask for.
His fears and dark thoughts settle in the lines in his face and on the thick skin on his fingertips.
Pill after pill, meeting after meeting, he is tired.
He wants to wash away the things he's seen that he cannot repeat out loud to us.
"He stirs in his sleep." She says.
Trouble and reoccurring demons fighting battles behind his restless eyelids.
He fought for my future.
He fought for my freedoms.
He is my troubled soldier.

first,
you will try to recollect the way i smile
the lines that my eyes make and the light that shines through them
the way i squint when i try to read letters that are far too small
the different wavelengths of laughter
the sneaky one when the politician i voted for won against yours
the sarcastic one when i insult your favorite football team

then you will try to remember the way i ate
the mess i made when i tried to gather rice in my hands
the smile when all of you were not too happy about the mess

then you will remember when i stopped using my walking stick
and when it hurt to walk

then you will realize you can't remember if my favorite sarong is checkered or plain
if it was indigo or brown
was it silk, was it cotton?

then you will realize that the newspaper company you still subscribe to, in memory of me - has shut down
then you will realize my favorite tv show has aired its season finale, and they're not available online
then you will realize my optician no longer makes lenses to the glasses i used to wear
then you will realize the wooden chair i used to live in
has shattered


that is when,
you will take a step back


and i will be

nothing
but
a
faded
*memory