Bapu

He was my grandfather.

When I am eight

He is eighty

Large, a giant

A twirling white mustache

Small bright eyes

Under thick cotton cloud eyebrows.

I pinch the skin on his hand

And watch it slowly

So slowly

Go back

“will you die soon?” I ask

“Maybe” he answers

“then will the skin stay up forever?” I ask

“have you had your dinner?” he wants to know

I climb onto his big armchair

And comb his hair

Make it stand

Like white candyfloss.

I cant spell, I tell him

It’s my only weakness I say

And history

And math

And languages.

He smiles

And kisses my brow

To blow cleverness there.

When I’m afraid

I hide under his chair

He glares at anyone

Who comes to look for me

Scuttling them

Like dry leaves in a storm

“you will cry

when I die” he says.

“ha” I laugh

“and so will your twenty five grandchildren”

“yes, but you will cry from your heart”.

One September morning he dies

We are called back from school

My sisters and I

I ran to his room

His chair was empty

His walking stick standing still

He lay on the bed

His bushy eyebrows calm

His mustache not twitching

His bright eyes closed

I didn’t want to pinch his hand

To see if the skin stayed up forever

I touched his candyfloss hair

And ran from the room

I flung myself on my bed

And I cried

Oh how I cried

Great racking sobs choking me

No one, no one

Could console me

No one.no one

Could understand my loss

The first real sorrow

In my life

Mine alone

That no one could share.

The beginning

Of knowledge

That we stand

Alone