A kind of dissonance

I spent a summer as a receptionist

At his company.

I didn't do anything, really

Except stare outside

And think about beer.

I hated that job,

Spending the precious summer months

Locked away 9-5

Next to a window

So that I could see exactly what I was missing.

Then he came in.

I watched him walk from his car to the door,

And I understood

Why he'd retired the year before.

It took so long

To walk,

To open the door,

Even to wave hello.

His body was weighed down,

Like the air around him was thick,

And he was forcing his way through the haze,

Carving a path out of mud

That kept melting back into his footsteps.

He took my hand,

Clasped it, damp and shaking

Asked me,

How's school?

You still play basketball?

What about the trumpet?

I said fine, no, no

Like I had every time I saw him

For 19 years.

I watched him smile,

Hobbling away after saying goodbye.

The closest thing I'd ever have

To a grandfather.

I didn't know

He was walking through cancer.

Tripping and stumbling

Over his own body.

I didn't know cancer could do that −

Seep into footsteps,

Turn bones sour and rotten.

When he died

I didn't cry,

Even though I wanted to.

Instead, all I could think about

Was finding my trumpet.