Goodbye (Papi)

Unable to recognize you, 

with your 

sunken cheeks 

and your hollow eyes; I see myself 

in you 

as your name slips over my tongue 

even though my mind can’t seem 

to connect the thought that you 

are my grandfather,

my papi.

Those eyes 

          full of dementia, so 

lost and confused. I hold your gaze 

knowing the feeling of constant fear and amnesia. 

I hold you close, like I wished 

when I was alone in a sea of darkness, 

unable to swim, 

water filling my lungs. 

I’ll be your lifeguard. I’ll be your masseuse.

My fingers caressed your fragile neck––

feeling the tendons that held your head up, 

your belly flattened, your once full figure 

now saggy––

and the pain seeps out your skin 

into my veins; may every exhale I take 

take all our pain away.

I’ll sit here as long as you need me to 

because you were more of a father to me 

then my second creator ever could be.

He never picked me up after school, but you did.

You took me to McDonald’s 

bought me a large fry with two Sweet and Sour. 

Before we got home, you stopped to get me a cherry ice. 

I held your calloused hands 

that you used tirelessly 

at the factory 

as we crossed the street. 

I’m sorry that when I got older, 

I barely sat with you, but 

I’m glad now I’m able to look into your 

shallow eyes, 

which scream for remembrance and peace. 

I’ll always love you, no matter how much you can’t remember me. 

Even when you reach your final intake, 

your memories will remain in my mind. 

May you rest in peace, 

remembering my little hands that hugged you 

while you watched to see if the Yankee’s would win.