Jesus & Jack

I got the call last week.
“It’s over. Finally.”
Looking around the room,
sixty eyes on me &
one girl, she even hugged me.
He’d been 90. Ninety good years
with 13 grandchildren,
four great grandkids. A couple
on the way.
You don’t know how fast
you can fly 2,000 miles
but Kerouac would’ve
never written.

A great uncle wanted
a picture of the kids. They
sat in front of my grandfather.
“Crop ‘im out later,” he said
with a wave of bony vein hands.

I do.

I secretly keep
a whole copy – just for me.

Later at home. She waits
for my uncle –her son–to
say grace.

He can’t.

He heard the death rattle.
He sat there for a few hours.
He clutched Kleenex like
moth balls pulling
apart between calloused
fingers, rolling in
frustration for a lost father.

He talks to God in his
own way between
sobbing eyes and between
running noses.

She grabs my arm
under the chandelier.
“Say grace, Devon.”

I don’t

know what to say. My
religion’s mine
but she needs it. To
hear it. I tug her
earlobe & simply say

“Can’t do so,
Grandmama. Jesus
is showing Jack around
now & can’t hear us anyhow.”

4.3.06