“What do you want for dinner?”
My grandfather asked me.
Their house warm with the scent of biscuits rising in the oven,
and my grandmother’s chatter.
He looked down on me with a spark in his eye
because he knew he did not need to ask.
“Macaroni and cheese please.”
He laughed in a way that made it easy to picture him young.
“You got it kiddo.”
This was our skit we played at every meal.
Roast in the oven and mashed potatoes whipped in the pan,
but my grandfather couldn’t resist the urge to spoil me
with a special order,
even sometimes for breakfast.
I watched him in the kitchen.
He moved like a bird building its nest,
instinctual.
His hands broad and strong,
softened with time,
the skin a bit slack,
but his fingerprints told a story of work,
of many lives lived,
through pain and pride,
love and loss.
A thick woven web
that stretched all the way to his small kitchen.
He hummed and sang as he put water on to boil.
I sit with him now,
but he searches for me,
through a fog of confusion,
his memories stirred up in his mind,
but he finds me.
“How is your ski resort doing? You bought a ski resort, right?” he asks.
I own a house, near a ski resort,
but I do not correct him.
“Yes, it is going well.” I say, “We are having a great Winter.”
His eyes strain to read my lips and he smiles.
“Good, good.” He pats me on the knee,
his hands jittery in constant tremble.
This morning he thought he missed the school bus.
His mother is in his bedroom, she woke him, he says.
My brother’s room is his now,
filled with figments of his mind,
seeped out into the world.
He looks at me with watery eyes,
because he knows.
“Grampy, what do you want for dinner?”
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