They form a line before my father,
these same people in bright clothes last
October lined up after my sister’s wedding, and ask
my father how he feels, like family media moguls.
Some cry and I wonder if they cry
for Grandpa or my Dad or themselves.

I hear muttered sniffles around me as they take
their seats in the middle of the cold room,
cold best for preserving the dead
flowers arranged above my grandfather.
These people then relax, like last Christmas Eve
at Grandpa’s house in Malden where martini
smiles spread on everyone’s face while voices buzz
with the latest news of Betty and John’s new house.
Laughs ring out, to me nails on a blackboard
and horribly misplaced in this dim lit room,
as someone relates a story about how old
Mike stowed away to America with toy snakes
to scare the immigration officers.
“Poor Mike, he’s with Francis now” they say
to ease their own souls.
I do not understand these people
how they mix death and life
like gin and vermouth; to laugh
in someone’s death is a sin
in my atheist mind,

so I stay staunch. I will not give up my vigil
for my grandfather, I will not smile
nor talk nor cry. I will respect that man who gave
my father life, who voicelessly caressed the old
tired skin of a wife who could no longer recognize
him. I will not forget him like all these
people around me must have, talking about
dinner tomorrow and next summer’s vacation.
I will stand here and give respect for them, even
though they laugh when they should
cry.

I walk to my father and see the redness grow
around his eyes, his swollen damp nose.
“I miss him Dad.”
He takes my hand and looks
into me. Two days ago I saw him
cry for the first time in my life.

In memory Michael Pifalo, 1901-1993