grandpa
Eduardo Ayala Serrano
August 29, 1928 - September 28, 2017
I.
Lady of Death visits me.
I welcome her.
I welcome her and all her
bones
shadows
& untangling.
II.
“My dad is dying soon”
the text read.
And I cried.
I cried
not because a man is dying soon,
but because I imagined
what it must feel like
to send a text that reads
“My dad is dying soon”
III.
My grandfather got a hip replacement.
Soon after
it became clear
he wasn’t quite strong enough.
Although the surgery was a success,
his organs began to shut down and
they agreed to remove the ventilator.
A waiting game:
How long can he breathe on his own?
When the waiting ended,
my grandmother reassured me
“He got the hip he wanted.”
And all I could think about
was how that hip would lay
cold in the ground.
Who am I to say which is more precious -- joints to walk with or air in your lungs?
Perhaps he did not want to choose, either.
So now he has both.
And neither.
IV.
My students tell me,
“Stay strong.”
And I wonder who told them that.
And I wonder how many times.
And I wonder why instead of,
“I’m here for you.”
V.
“If he was anything like you, he must have been an incredible person.”
And the truth is,
I have no idea if he was anything like me.
From what I know,
He wasn’t.
And the truth is,
I have no idea if I am anything like him.
From what I know,
I’m not.
But I am a product of his living.
And now he is dead.
VI.
i remember the time she told me:
i watched that grandfather weep over his grandson
and thought to myself
my father doesn’t give a shit
about my son.
VII.
I wasn’t expecting the water.
I wasn’t expecting the water to leak in my backpack,
erasing my words from the bottom corners of my journal.
I wasn’t expecting the water to leak from my eyes,
erasing my walls I spent so many years building.
I wasn’t expecting the water.
That’s what water does --
she comes unexpectedly
and erases.
Sometimes it’s words.
Sometimes it’s walls.
Sometimes it’s entire communities.
Goodbye to my journal.
Goodbye to my grandfather.
I thank you both
for the blessings
you did
and
did not
give me.
VIII.
I am 26 years old encountering death for the second time.
The first death -- my cat.
And it hurt,
Despite only loving her for a year or so.
The second death -- my grandfather.
And it hurts,
Despite the limited relationship we had.
And yes, I recognize the privilege in all these statements.
“He just stopped breathing, Maya”
my grandmother told me, choking on her words.
I think of all those whose breath is stolen from them
& all the choked words fighting to be heard.
IX.
And while I sat in a coffee shop
writing this poem
an officer placed a ticket in my windshield
because in this town
the streets have to get cleaned
even when your grandfather dies.
Afterall,
it is the fourth Thursday of the month
between the hours of 12:30 and 3:30 PM.
$49.
That’s the price you pay
for wanting to grieve in public.