Spitballs

My grandfather’s tears pool on the computer keys

And he rereads his poem, which I’ve typed.

I wish I had the bravery to edit my own poems.

I prefer slinging them into the air like spitballs,

Pushing feelings out with a quick breath and an empty soul.

I like to put my grief into manageable chunks.

In this case, it doesn’t work like that.

It hits me out of nowhere, and suddenly I can’t see, can’t find the ground.

Her vertigo is a feeling I didn’t understand until now.

A lot of her feelings I never understood.

She was passionate in all the right ways

And active even when her body limited her.

She was smart in a way that made her terrible at spelling

But excellent at public speaking.

At her memorial, I mumbled and stumbled through my poems about her.

If I knew that my grandfather would be ok,

I would crumble back into myself, making my bed a breeding ground for anger.

I tell other people he’s ok, because, like me, he hates people worrying about him.

That’s why I keep my fellowship predictable.

Coffee in the morning, sitting at the dining table as he does his crossword.

Movie nights, Wednesdays and Sundays.

Watching the news at 6 o’clock.

I can tell he knows typing his poem was one of the hardest things for my fingers to do.

It hurt in a way unlike a paper cut or a blister.

It’s being pummeled with spitballs, labeled fear and running and eating and continuing to live the life she’d want me to.

My grandpa ended his poem with this:

This new world is not a brave one.