Thank You For The Watermelons

Silent building
Sorrows Roof
Still people
Numbed in grief
I am one of them
A single girl
Amongst the frozen
Scared and sad
Confused and still.
Someone weeps
I cringe, melting
Wishing I could fade
Invisible, into the wall.

I've never been here
I've never done this
This is something
I read about
Something sad
That makes me
Stop turning pages.
I can't close the cover
On this story.

My gaze darts
To and fro
My face gray-white
Like unpainted plaster
I long to escape
To leave, to flee
I don't want to stay
In this place
Where the departed wait.

Salty wet burns my eyes
I will not cry.
I cannot cry.
What right do I have
To weep for a man
I never truly knew?
I met him many times
Visited often
But I didn't know him.
So what right do I have
To weep for this man?

I feel I cared little
About him, my blood
Papa. Grandfather.
After all,
What can be said
From my mouth?
He liked to hunt.
He liked to joke.
He told the same stories
Over and over again.
He grew things
Grapes, persimmons.
I didn't like them,
The persimmons.
But I pretended to
So I wouldn't disappoint him.

But what else
Do I know of this man?
He wears a white eyepatch
He somehow lost
One eye's vision
Working with a chemical.
I cannot remember what kind.
I should.
He had white hair
And he was tall.
He loved his big chair.
I don't remember much more.
I know I should.
I think about the fact
That he is dead, gone.
He'll never again
Tell a story
Or a joke.
He'll never bring me watermellons
On my birthday, again.
That is something else
He always did.

Fresh tears fall
Trailing down my cheeks.
I weep silently
Drowned out by those
Who deserve more rightly
To mourn him.
I don't want to be noticed
I don't want people
Comforting me
I'm to confused.

I hold back the tears
I will not weep.
I breathe steadily
And I softly back from the room.
No one notices
I pray thanks.

I go into another
Empty, silent room
All these rooms
So silent
Like Death.
They are, I think
Death.
They have seen so much
The walls are stained
With grief and tears.

Suddenly, I am angry.
Furious at myself.
What right have I
To retreat, when
No one else has?
I suffer less pain
Than those who
Knew him so well
I lift my chin,
I return to the room
And I walk by
That wooden box
So elegant in color
And arrangement.
He is inside, of course.
Still, and pale.
I cannot bring myself
To gaze any longer.
I flee to the pews.
The service begins.

There is more weeping
Then we leave
That still, silent place.
I get into a car.
One part of a procession.
I see the black Hearse.
I feel blank now.
Empty of grief or pain.
Of anger, tears.
Confusion, has eaten
Taken away
All the feelings.

I see the green grass.
The gray stones
They rise from the earth
Soon, that
Will be my Grandfather.
A gray stone,
With a carved name.
One of many.
He'll be lost
Amidst all these others
So similar
I see those
That have been forgotten.
Black with dirt
Covered in weeds.
You have to struggle
To simply read the names
Carved out
For those forgotten people.

My mind halts
No longer drifting
As we pause
At an empty hole.
Empty now.
But soon, that place
Will be the home.
Of Papa's body
Words are spoken.
I cannot hear them
Though I note
The growing sounds
Of Sorrow
Rising around me.
But I cannot join them.
I don't deserve to.
I would be cheating.
Lying.
False.

I watch as
He is lowered down
Down, into the earth
Slowly, slowly, it is time
It is time to leave.
Flowers are being
Dispersed, as memories.
Left here they will wilt.
Wilted flowers
Do not belong
On a fresh grave.
So I take one offered.
A white rose.
White, like Papa's hair.
Perhaps I am undeserving
Of the significance
Of this pure flower.
But it is pretty
And somehow, for me,
It is him.

We go home soon after.
I hang my rose to dry.
I do not want it
To wilt into nothing.
That night I stare at it.
And though I beg them
The tears won't come.
Now I am alone.
I can grieve without shame.
But still I think...
Why should I grieve
For someone I never really knew?
I stare at the flower
And think of Papa.
And suddenly I realize.

He liked to hunt.
He liked to joke.
He told the same stories
Over and over again.
He grew things
Grapes, persimmons.
I didn't like
The persimmons.
But I pretended to
So I wouldn't disappoint him.
He wore a white eyepatch
He somehow lost
One eye's vision
Working with a chemical.
I cannot remember what kind.
He had white hair
And he was tall.
He loved his big chair.
He always, always
Brought me watermelons
On my birthday.

A single tear falls
Sliding down my cheek.
And I smile, looking
At the rose.
And silently
I whisper to it.
"I may not know
So much more
About you, Papa.
But I loved you,
Even so.
Your jokes made me laugh.
I always listened
To your stories.
Even when
I was hearing them
For the third time.
Maybe I don't know
As much as some
Maybe my grief
Isn't as heavy
As it was
For the others.
But I loved you.
And I'll miss you.
There is no shame
In that fact.
Thank you
For the Watermelons."