What My Grandfather Sang
When the house is empty, the rooms fill
with his voice, drifting in
like air conditioning. Walk to the corner
of the street, pick up an orange.
He is singing his life. He sang when I was a child
to soothe me back to sleep. I used to watch
the night light flicker, his silhouette resting
against the beige burlap drapes
as he pulled on his trousers.
The streets are good. The orange sweet.
The sun wasn't up yet, but it didn't matter—
he was going blind, could only see
the unsettled blur of cups
and counter on the days he worked.
I've seen the half dollar stuck
between his teeth, watched them close
the bronze casket lined with wool blankets,
the black satin wreath and paper money burning
into the afterlife. Now, his picture is suspended
in the corner of the dining room,
smiling over the altar. His blind eyes
watching over our every meal.
When the house is empty, I can hear
the wood creak beneath the rug,
his heavy footsteps, the slap and shuffle
of leather slippers sticking to tile,
when he walks into the kitchen.
The streets are good. The orange sweet.
I wonder when it will pass,
when I will stop sitting up alone at night
to keep this old man around me,
wanting his song, his voice to stretch
into every empty room I walk through,
wanting him to finally see me when he sings.
Priscilla Lee
Photograph of my
Grandfather probably taken in the mid-1930's
Photograph of my Grandmother and Grandfather taken in the mid-1960's