This poem was written as an imitation assignment to "Picture Bride," a poem written by Cathy Song. Unfortunately, I have never met the Grandpa this poem is about-- after suffering for years of lung cancer, he died just before I was born. However, I have been lucky enough to spend many years of my life with Grandma Y. Although I hated it at the time, every Saturday my mom and I would drive into town for lunch and shopping at Kahala Mall with Grandma. I didn't understand yet how dearly I would miss those days. Today, my grandma is trapped by Alzheimer's Disease. Slowly, day by day, she began to lose memory of those around her-- her neighbors, her sister, me. This poem, melancholy and bittersweet, is my attempt to convey my feelings toward this unknown man, kind and flawed as he supposedly once was. I wish I could have met him, if only once.
Grandpa, what if?
You’re not here anymore, we’ve never even met. Your photo is on my dresser, dusty and faded. You’re not looking at the camera, your face is stern, your back is stiff. You’re not even smiling.
But Grandpa, what if you were still alive, keeping her company through long days and even longer nights? Would Grandma still be where she is, in a sterile care home, sitting, waiting for something she cannot remember? (Is it you?) Smiling docilely, hands outstretched for any offering of kindness, however small? Politely thanking all who help her, and even those who don’t?
Grandpa, what if you were here to take care of her? Would you hate to see her like this? your still beautiful wife, her body plumper, healthier, stronger than it’s ever been, but her mind lost? Her conscious mind flailing, thrashing, kicking through the suffocating root-choked caverns of her past?
Grandpa, what if you were here with us, what would you do? Would you agree with our decision and offer her this thin life, shallow as it may be, extending the days nights, middays, and midnights of her painted happiness? Would you stay with her, watching sunrises she’ll never remember, count stars she’s already forgotten? Would you be stronger than me, Be able to look her in the face, at her uncomprehending smile and be able to smile back?
Grandpa, what if?
You’re not here anymore,
we’ve never even met.
Your photo is on my dresser,
dusty and faded.
You’re not looking at the camera,
your face is stern, your back is stiff.
You’re not even smiling.
But Grandpa,
what if you were still alive,
keeping her company
through long days and even longer nights?
Would Grandma still be where she is,
in a sterile care home,
sitting, waiting for something she cannot remember?
(Is it you?)
Smiling docilely, hands outstretched for any offering of kindness,
however small?
Politely thanking all who help her, and even those who don’t?
Grandpa,
what if you were here to take care of her?
Would you hate to see her like this?
your still beautiful wife, her body
plumper, healthier, stronger than it’s ever been,
but her mind lost?
Her conscious mind flailing,
thrashing,
kicking through the suffocating root-choked caverns of her past?
Grandpa,
what if you were here with us,
what would you do?
Would you agree with our decision
and offer her this thin life,
shallow as it may be,
extending the days
nights, middays, and midnights
of her painted happiness?
Would you stay with her,
watching sunrises she’ll never remember,
count stars she’s already forgotten?
Would you be stronger than me,
Be able to look her in the face,
at her uncomprehending smile
and be able to smile back?
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