Bones in Winter
Grandpa sat slack against the wall
entranced by sleep, bellowing out
breaths often of varied staccato
lengths,
the wind stammering from beneath his wise old moustache.
It had been fourteen years since I last knew him
With a jolt he awoke, rose and walked,
the years in his knees and hips hindered
him halfway across the yard.
With the brown, dying grass as cruel
witness he began to fall; I caught him
arms wrapped around his chest.
My hurried heart beat into his
back; his solemn plea was to
not worry as a coldness washed
over
and the waltz slowed, slowed until his feet dragged limp
until I no longer had a partner
just bones in the winter.
This horrid dance, the arrhythmic footsteps of
fate over now, I stand straight,
face crusted by dry tears
the nameless gnawing in my stomach
fades reborn in some way, I manage to
smile
and am better for it.