What was I supposed to do?

Deny him the only right and last wish he had?

 

And on that 4th day of May

My grandfather asked me to deliver him a gun

And in that brown paper bag

I delivered

 

First I had to discharge him from the Hospital

Take his belongings and pack them up, folded

We both outreached for each other, almost constantly

And took a car service for a few blocks north

 

His questions ran through my head

His eyes poetic and his smile warm

His leg numb and thumbs caressing my own

His fungus-finger nails hovering and blessing my own

 

His tears breaking the cracks in his old skin

His white hair trimmed by his own sword

His tea-stained manufactured teeth in place

His light-blue cotton shirt fully buttoned

 

He did not want to suffer

He did not want her to be alone

He did not want me to give

He did not want to be bought

 

He only wanted us to do the “right thing”

He only wanted us to do from the heart

He never understood the depth of the knowledge which resides in our hearts

He never knew the person who made me happy

 

All he wanted was to die in her arms

For he and the love of his life, to die together

And that is what he achieved

But now what do I do

Alone, in a silent, aged,

moth-ball smelling apartment

on 218th St?

 

 

© 2000 David Greg Harth

00.05.04.15:42:56@1515NYC

00.05.05.03:33:40@296NYC