Grandpa by Grace Kallman

He fell.

He fell and broke into irreparable pieces.

Now I see them all falling,

The Angels of my home,

Tumbling from life itself.

I see the roses on their coffins,

The songs I play for them.

I see the missing petals on their cheeks,

Their broken stem of a body.

I lie on the floor,

Feeling nothing but the burn of my tears,

As the dam of my eyes forbids them from falling

Like my Angels.

My Angels turn into raindrops,

Turn into rain,

Rain that pours on the very roses I plant beside them.

Heart wrung dry by their migration,

Throat, a throng of twisted stems,

Cyclically coiled like a resting snake.

She tells me that his greatest reward

Will be if I soar with the wings I already have.

But I see myself in a shiny black box,

Covered with scarlet letters,

And roses of regret.

Regret that I only gave my Angels one rose each,

And not a bouquet.

Regret that I gave my Angels wilted roses,

Grown with only half of my heart.

I watch my Angels fly away,

The Gardener collecting for harvest.

I see my black wings cover my eyes,

So that said roses can’t steal sight too.

I watch new roses bloom,

So that I am numb to the emptiness

Of the roses I truly want,

But can never get back;

To save myself from the pain that they’re gone.

Really. Gone.

I hope he’s happy.

I hope he forgives me.

More than anything,

I hope he knows how much I love him.

I watch my Angels carry him home,

As her wings envelop me

And keep me from flying into the thorns.

My only hope,

Is that one day,

I’ll soar into their arms once again.