Requiem

by Leah L. Cole

I.
Banff Springs
Alaska, 1986
Fresh from a hot springs bath
Still smelling faintly of sulfur.
Gramma and I are in a souvenir shop.
A silver arrowhead on a nickel chain.
I carefully count out my money.
The lady gives me a $2.00 bill in change.
He knows it is only junk tourist jewelry.
He puts it on anyways.
That night an old Cherokee woman stops him,
Touches the point carefully,
Smiles sadly at me.
She produces a silver and turquoise bolo tie.
In the wedding pictures he is wearing it.
He married Gramma in August.
I only remember the crepe-paper--it was purple.
Mommy wore yellow and Gramma pink.
The church smelled like Advent.
Reverend Smith blessed them--
     The same man who married my parents
     And baptized me
     And killed himself one February.
I have no one to perform my service,
And he will not know either--
If he lives long enough to be wheeled,
Senseless, to my wedding.
I wonder if they make
Tuxedoes with slits for stomach tubes.

II.
I am visiting for his birthday.
He is pushing me from the swing that
He hung for me on the horse chestnut tree.
He bundled me in Gramma's vinegar brown sweater and
I giggled against the chill.
Seventy years ago he burst with agony
Into the cold November air.
Even the midwife cried with relief.
The boy would have a mother
And, Gottes willung,
Ein brüderchen.
His first language: Deutsch.
His first lullaby: Brahms.
His first book: Die Bibel.
A simple milkman's son.
Growing to become a simple milkman--
The last milkman to deliver in the city.
He still greets his old customers auf Deutsch.
He speaks it to me now as I swing higher
Because it makes me giggle.
His adopted granddaughter,
His kleines Leahchen,
Does not understand him.

III.
It is a month after his first stroke.
Grandma flew him home from Florida early this year.
The parking lot was caramel mud as we
Loaded him, confused and babbling, into the back seat.
Now, the trees are tipped in green and the grass has become furry.
His son and daughter-in-law are visiting.
He no longer knows them.
He introduces himself to me.
"My name is Bill. I'm sorry, but I don't know you."
"I'm not quite right today."
"Things are all frehuddled."
I say, "Grandpa, it's Leah."
He has a spark for a moment.
"Oh honey, I thought I'd never see you again."
"Your old grandpa is going home to God."
He cries and hugs me to him.
"Oh honey, I love you."
"Oh honey, I thought you'd never come."
I hold my Grandpa as he sobs.
"Oh honey, I love you."
In a few minutes he runs down
Like his old phonograph machine.
Then he remembers.
"Oh honey, I'm so glad you came."
"You remember giving this to your old Grandpa?"
It is the arrowhead. The chain is black with oxidation.
"I wanted to give it back to you before I go."
"You won't forget your old Grandpa, will you?"
"Oh honey, I thought I'd never see you."
And he cries.

IV.
I am 13. My parents are in Hawaii.
I have pneumonia.
He brings me gladiolus and
French Toast.
He even saves the middle bites for last.
Ignoring the flecks of blood from my lungs,
He placidly feeds me between my convulsive fits.
Now I smuggle him flavored ice
And rub soothing lotion on the
Half-healed holes from the tube.
Gladiolus have long since stopped blooming.
He no longer hears even the prayers.
He is in the darkness that is not quite death.
I pray for peace, and look out the window,
Trying to focus on the dingy grey parking lot snow.
Maybe that way, I will not hear him whimpering,
"Honey, let me die."
"Oh Lord, deliver me. Make it end."
"Oh please, let me go home to my father."
"Oh Honey, it hurts. Can't you let it stop?"
I will my mind not to associate him
With penicillin stale air and diapers.

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