A kind of dissonance
I spent a summer as a receptionist
At his company.
I didn't do anything, really
Except stare outside
And think about beer.
I hated that job,
Spending the precious summer months
Locked away 9-5
Next to a window
So that I could see exactly what I was missing.
Then he came in.
I watched him walk from his car to the door,
And I understood
Why he'd retired the year before.
It took so long
To walk,
To open the door,
Even to wave hello.
His body was weighed down,
Like the air around him was thick,
And he was forcing his way through the haze,
Carving a path out of mud
That kept melting back into his footsteps.
He took my hand,
Clasped it, damp and shaking
Asked me,
How's school?
You still play basketball?
What about the trumpet?
I said fine, no, no
Like I had every time I saw him
For 19 years.
I watched him smile,
Hobbling away after saying goodbye.
The closest thing I'd ever have
To a grandfather.
I didn't know
He was walking through cancer.
Tripping and stumbling
Over his own body.
I didn't know cancer could do that −
Seep into footsteps,
Turn bones sour and rotten.
When he died
I didn't cry,
Even though I wanted to.
Instead, all I could think about
Was finding my trumpet.