Grandpa, I see you - A Poem

La Alhambra, looking out

Grandpa I see

the soft spurts of oxygen shooting through tubes 

rhythmically into your nose every few moments.

You were a stockbroker in the fifties

and all of that secondhand smoke

made holes in your lungs.

You didn't want your grandchildren

to see you this way.

We came for the family reunion 

and my cousins and I splashed in the summer lake.

You watched from the cabin balcony,

your eyes plump with excitement,

like a child with a broken bone

who wants to go out and play, 

but can't.

On those humid, August afternoons 

you often asked me to get my guitar

and do some pickin' for you;

then you closed your eyes, leaned back,

and we soared.

Last time I saw you we sat on lawn chairs,

talking about girls, crunching peanuts,

and watching the darkness chase the sun

unwillingly across the sky.  

You laughed, ignoring the night,

because we both knew the sun was setting,

and still we weren't done talking.

(Andrew Sandahl, 2011)