Xeno Hemlock

Vodka. Tears. Depression. Those were the components that helped me write this poem about my grandfather during the early days of my writing life. Pounding away at the keyboard, the potion of vodka and emotions aroused my artistic sensibility. The tears sluiced down on my cheeks against my will. I shut my mouth as best as I could so that my family would not discover the sad but hilarious scene of me writing.

After I emerged from the chrysalis of a life-changing awakening, I included this in my first self-published book Xenanimus. The book was a free offer to subscribers of one of my former (and now dead) websites. It’s been a long while since the book last existed on the Internet. Only less than 10 people obtained a copy before I eradicated it from my writing history.

A couple of days ago, I stumbled upon Xenanimus once more in my digital library. Yesterday was also my grandfather’s death anniversary. I put two and two together, Now this work of a younger and amateur version of me is back on the Internet land.

Arsenio, this is for you, from your favorite grandchild.

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Oh Grandfather how I’ve missed you, your rough skin and your handless arm!
Your dark eyes and big voice complimented your sea-past charm.
It must’ve been my bad, bad days ‘cause now I’m being punished.
But victimization we don’t welcome. Our strength got it vanished.

One night of a forgotten date, you walked into our door.
I watched you from the stairs as I descended from the second floor.
My mother she yelled at you because you were always drunk.
You always had that cool, weathered fisherman spunk.

I waited for you after class, one day in Kindergarten.
My schoolmates one by one were picked up by their guardians.
I held back my tears as I ended up alone.
So I picked up my bag and walked home on my own.

What kid wouldn’t rejoice, because home is always joy?
I ran outside the yard. I littered my toys.
You arrived and you were fuming. You beat me up with a belt.
I cried and cried some more as each lash my skin felt.

Who cared about the bruises? They all faded away.
You were a reformed old man, keeping your demons at bay.
One time I sat on your shoulders. We made our way from my school.
A silly prince, that made me. The world was mine to rule.

Wobbly letters on the crossword ‘cause your writing hand was gone.
That wasn’t a hindrance. You possessed a cooking brawn.
On the handless arm the knife was lodged and began cutting them vegetables.
Meals were the prize of conquering the impossible.

I’d eaten thousand meals made by a one-handed cook.
A tug on your soft side was all it really took.
When I refused the dinner, I didn’t have to beg.
With your one and only hand, you mashed the rice into eggs.

That foreign television, it was our biggest time waster.
There was only one remote. First come was the winner!
The evening was yours and mine the afternoon.
You wanted your news but I wanted my cartoons.

Sometimes it wasn’t always smooth sailing.
Our shows on certain days, the same time they would be showing.
Those special sports events would hurt my pride as a child.
Your buddies would come over. I thought those shows were too wild.

I’d slam the bedroom door as a form of protest.
It was stupid and embarrassing in front of your guests.
Regret? Of course not. It was from a long time passed.
Like all grandfathers, you would succumb at long last.

In the laboratory back in sophomore my teacher called my name.
My aunt was at the door. Our feared descent came.
In the construction truck of her then boyfriend, I saw his face.
Tears and sobs flooded even before we left the place.

During your last few days, the entire family was silent.
You couldn’t leave your bed. In the air was a lament.
For your last birthday, everyone was in the house.
My grandmother was there, your separated spouse.

In your bed you called for me, concerned that I should eat.
I replied, “Yes I will.” Then I was ushered away by my feet.
How could you worry about me? I was old enough to eat.
My grandmother uttered that I was your favorite.

On that morning I woke up, there was a faint bleakness around.
I came over to your bed to hear your last few sounds.
If only I had waited for a little while longer,
I would’ve seen the last breath of my departed grandfather.

That picture on your coffin, it depicted you perfectly.
Did they bury it with you? I want to see it longingly.
One arm had no hand, a reminder of your life of fishing.
On the other you held a bucket, for the plants, for watering.

I’ve been a sinner grandfather. I’ve neglected your birthdays.
The worse that I’ve been doing, I’ve been rejecting your grave.
Under the earth and inside that coffin,
Lies my grandfather not. In it there is nothing.

Sometimes I see you visit, brown wings on the wall.
You’ve been keeping an eye on me after all.
Oh Grandfather I don’t miss you, after writing this I can say!
Why would I ever miss you when you never went away>

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Photo by Johannes Plenio from Pexels.