Frank

my grandpa taught me how to roll dough for pizzelles and how to fold fritos

and how to sneak limitless amounts of chocolate covered cherries from the candy dish at christmas

without getting caught he’d nudge me when my grandma wasn’t looking

and say megs wouldja get me one-uh those and I’d take two and give him one

and keep the other for myself, a delicious product of our ritual

until he got sick and couldn’t open the wrappers himself and I had to open them for him

peeling back the delicate red and gold foil while he watched my fingers

move effortlessly in a way his could not anymore because his heart’s

effort is less than it should be his lung’s breath less than it should be

time less than it should be

at the funeral the priest talked about god and how my grandpa isn’t in pain anymore and that he’s in heaven

and that god is with him

he told us we’ll see him again someday

and I want with all of my heart for those things to be true

but I don’t know

I cried a lot and so did everyone because my grandpa loved photography and board games

and frank sinatra and his kids and chocolate covered cherries

and his heart, even as it stopped, was always sure about god that never stopped

and maybe it’s right and maybe I’ll see him again someday

and again I really don’t know

I wish I could ask him how he knew and now I can’t

but if he’s right maybe someday I will