Monday, January 31, 2011

Grandpa poems (part 3 of 3)

don't pour sprinkles and a cherry on the cats, grandpa

he was leaning against our sink,
spiraling down the drain.
four years of washing memories
down like milk after dessert,
only to forget what the pie tasted like
or that he ever ate. 

he never understood what alzheimer's was.

"would those make good ice cream?"
he asked, pointing at our cats.

"what do you think these are?"
my dad questioned, worried.

"hah," he chuckled, and i didn't know
if he thought it was funny or confusing.

"grandpa, these are cats.... not ice cream."

my dad and i stared at him, searching
for the slightest sign that he was in there.
but there was nothing, so we laughed
to hide the fact that he was gone. 

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