The bittersweet scent of flowers:
Heart wrenching. Intoxicating. Invigorating.
It lingers in the air, undisturbed,
Following everyone.
I scrunch my nose at the overwhelming stench.
He lies there peacefully.
The sounds, the movement, the scent....none bother him.
Though all haunt me.


The people all cry for him.
His family and old friends
Trying to reach out
Just one last time.
Silently, they take him in:
The small cotton puff of his hair,
Pale white fingers,
Hollow face.


All who have gathered walk amongst each other
Talking in no louder than a hushed tone.
I only get a glimpse of this interaction;
I’m soon shut away in the basement of this sad place.
The eight-year-old girl is deemed too young for this.
The visitors come to me with sad eyes,
Yet a smile is on their lips.
Hoping the sorrow from above evades me;
Hoping locking me away from the activity locks away the pain;
Hoping the lonely child with empty eyes won’t comprehend.
They don’t know the pain hit me long ago.


In the almost empty room,
Hours later,
I finally approach him.
I know my family’s eyes are all on me,
Wondering what I’m doing.
I ignore them and keep my eyes on him.
I see his stillness,
The position he will keep for eternity.
But I can see his smile,
The sparkle in his eyes when I run to his arms.
I hear his voice calling my name.
I feel his warm hand wrapped around mine as we walk around the block.


Tears sting my eyes, but do not fall.
Though young, I know. I understand.
I whisper softly,
For only his ears,
“I miss you.”
The words bounce back;
The dead cannot hear.
I place a letter beside him,
Meant only for his eyes,
Eyes that will never open.
Before walking away
I whisper once more:
“I love you.
Goodbye, Grandpa.”