uncle wick

the next time I see grandpa
he will not see me
his eyes will be closed
and people will be murmuring "how peaceful he looks"
now that his soul is no longer trapped in his withering frame
rattling the ribs of its cage so that his body curls around the pain

the next time I see grandpa
my eyes will be so clouded with tears
that he will be a still blur
and I will regret sleeping in on cold holidays

the next time I see grandpa
my soul will be so wracked with longing
that it will scream to burst free of my wreck to join him
but he will not beckon me to him
he will not hold my hand and smile
he will not touch my face
or tell me I am a good person
no one will look me in the eye and whisper "beautiful girl"

the next time I see grandpa
I will carry my pain close to my heart
I will greedily guard it
stuffing it into my mouth and swallowing
before anyone can steal it
my belly will ache as the anger twists through my body
I will feint the comfort of others
though I know there is no comforting

the next time I see grandpa
someone will belch a Sunday song
that was meant for a pretty red bird
shot with a rifle in Missouri
or a bald eagle soaring over the sierras
shattered from the sky by so many leaden tears
tell them to turn and run just like those young boys
because I will rip open their throats so that they can not presume to sing

the next time I see grandpa
I will be angry
he will not ask for my kisses as he puckers and sucks the air
puffing little popping sounds
he will not gaze wistfully remembering his sweet bride with black hair
he will not tell me the story again of the first time he saw her
under that revival tent, singing in the choir
"not that old story again" she would say and roll her old eyes
and he would tell undaunted of how he knew she was the one
and she would smile and say how she pointed him out that same night as the man she would marry
long after the gold rush staking their claims in each other
moral of the story: you are never too old to obey your mama

the next time I see grandpa
I will kiss him anyway
I will be close enough to see the unnatural natural flesh tone sitting on the surface of his grey skin
I will feel the rush of nausea as I catch a whiff of a foreign scent on his body
imagining the rubber gloves prepping and fussing over him in a well-lit room
he will look ready to present the evening news
with his mask of uncaring
I will want to wash his face with the tears I spill onto his new make-over
he will be as hard as he is cold
the stove can no longer keep him warm
even if it burned his flesh to ash
even if I cover his body with my own and breathe my breath into him
he will remain silent and still
he will not help me
his last bit of gold was snatched away

the next time I see grandpa
I think I will understand why
treasure is meant to be buried
in quiet
in darkness