You were 88 when your cells failed you
What did I do wrong?
Pleading – because men in your line are owed more years
My grandfather’s grandfathers stretched past 100
And your father – the bastard – died a day shy of 99
A family failure.
For him, the alcohol.
But what did I do?
You were a giant in this house
Tall, with big rough hands
Count the years picking watermelons in your wrinkles.
Building a house, a stable, a shower
Because nine children had to bathe – and you, last.
Hands hardened, digging family out of holes
You were born into.
You were a giant in this house
Loud laughter booming across bedrooms
Grabbing scruff of neck, stuck me to your side. Saying,
“Girl. Let me tell you.
If you ever go to Laos, don’t eat the fish sauce.”
And I am hooked – like it or not.
I had needs you knew, had grown with – saw.
Fathers who drink, who yell at dinner
And birthday parties.
I talk back
And you squeeze my leg under the table
Keep fighting!
Later you tell me you were proud.
And I was proud – but I did wonder
Why you never did more
Than squeeze my leg.
How did we miss it?
You were a giant in this house –
But in the hospital, you are a thin wire,
Head lolling like a watermelon.
Maybe it was during one of your walks
Or mowing the neighbor’s lawn –
Something green and docile snuck up to you brain
And sprouted.
I want to squeeze your leg
Keep fighting!
But there is no table to hide such indecencies.
I keep my hands to myself.
This is a foreign house now.
Its lifeblood, humiliated.
Legacy, standing useless in the kitchen.
Too loud – clanging plates together,
Asking stupid questions.
“What movie do you want to watch?”
You say nothing.
But what – do we pray?
The giant used to bring his prayers to me –
You’re saying grace – an ambush.
BendíganosalSeñorporestosalimentosybendicelasmanos…
And you left me – with frantic, hungry minutes
Consulting cousins – eating words for dinner.
I can’t remember the taste.
The weight of the seconds disgusts me.
My mother is angry – “He just won’t accept it.”
But I feel your grief in the silence.
Grieving – of a man who was never allowed to.
Grieving – of a man who does not know how.
“I love you.”
Silence.
The nurse comes soon
I will spare you the indignity.
Fingers on a ripped screen door –
Almost feels like
The home of a giant
I used to know.
Hey, I turn.
A man – words falling out a toothless grin.
Be good.
I nod – leaving last words as last.
The road back from Fayetteville bends past sunset on Jordan Lake.
Sun pulls me to its shores – blue-black water christened gold.
Too big for its own good.
And in his soft glow, all at once,
I feel them –
Thousands of could-have-beens
Should-have-dones,
Comes-to-passes,
Adding to impossibilities –
To here. Here now, with me.
Somewhere, there must have been a place of peace.
Somewhere, your feet rubbed sand against wood grain of a dock you built your family.
Somewhere, your finger traced a tree’s bark – just to feel it.
Noticed how the sun cut its branches
Just for you.
I close my eyes and reach hands across the universe
Hoping you can find it.
Supplementary material
The supplementary material for this article can be found at https://doi.org/10.1017/S1478951523001980.
Acknowledgments
To my grandfather, Tom – the giant who called me Lilliput, after the Lilliputians.
