Watching Across The Room
I'm in the hospital,
Listening to pneumonia-addled ramblings of grandfather,
Surrounded by family.
Why am I the only one shaking?
I understand what's happening,
I'm not prepared though.
I'm cradling my head in my hands
As they ask me how school is going.
Platitudes carry little meaning tonight.
I can't even talk about myself to them.
"Not now."
Grandpa's mumbling under the bedsheets.
Nurse comes in, draws blood.
Dad and Uncle J hold him steady, talking him through it.
It doesn't matter that he can't really hear them.
It's more for the family members in the room.
Nurse leaves.
There's pain, but they're still smiling and talking.
They've been here longer than I have.
They know how death works.
They've been in the room longer than I have too.
Granny and my aunt get up from their bedside chairs,
Rub my back in understanding and maternal comfort.
I'm not ready. I love him.
He doesn't even seem to know I'm here.
I don't want him to go yet.
I want to hug him and see him off on my terms.
I'm back to shaking.
Time to go.
I pull out a pen, start writing on a napkin.
I tell him he's the man I want to become.
I slide it under someone's red cellphone.
It won't be ignored.
I know someone will give it to him when he wakes.
Or if he does.
Critiqued poems-
Posted Dec 9, 2015, 7:05 AM UTC