Dreaming of Grandpa

I don’t know much about my grandpa.

I know I saw his ghost when I was small.

I know last year, 

when I wrote out everything I knew about him,

I filled both sides of a piece of yellow legal paper 

with my big sloppy handwriting.

And that one sheet was all I had.

I know that tonight I’m dreaming about him.

It’s 1993 and we’re in the house he built himself in 1952

shortly after he married my grandma,

the house where they raised my mother

and her sister and brother

while he worked three jobs to support them.

Where I saw his ghost in the hall in 1994.

I’m dreaming that he’s pale and bald,

and unlike the real 1993, I’m not a baby,

and unlike the real 1993, I know he’s dying.

He smiles now and then and makes wry comments,

the way he does in grandma’s old home movies.

And I can’t comprehend

how such a vibrant, loving guy,

who never failed to present his youngest daughter

with the first rosebud of spring,

could ever die of a heart too weak.

And I’m standing next to him in awe

trying to make up for so many lost years

trying to learn everything I can before he fades away

wishing I could press my hand against his hand,

wondering if he’d approve

of his little grandson all grown up.

And one moment we’re there in his living room,

and the next moment I’m 300 miles away,

and he’s been gone for almost 20 years.

And just like 1993, 

we never get the chance to hug goodbye.