Called, alone, to head the pallbearers, father
flies. Eldest son of the eldest son of the eldest son, father

insists, means something. By the door he hangs
a picture of grandfather.

He asks for my thoughts on the aesthetic
placement of the photo. Because his father

abandoned him he never abandoned
me, he confesses. All I know of grandfather

is the children’s milk he dropped off when I was young.
A handsome man in his youth, he married all the ladies in town, father

jokes. This man who calls for every heartbreak never
called at the funeral. It seems our fathers

are ours to hold alone. When the plane landed,
there were no more words. Already grandfather

had closed his eyes. Ours alone to hold, quiet
grief. At home, alone, I ask grandfather,

head hanging toward chest, what he couldn’t do in life
to do in death, to watch over my father.