in memory of my grandpa
Every Christmas, I sat
across the kitchen table,
as you peeled back my invisible
tape, unfolded my silver wrapping,
pulled open the tiny file box,
their dark sheets of music
crinkling, and slid a single wafer
into your palm.
Your wide lips smacked,
your eyes meeting mine,
as liquid mint
and Old Spice
mingled on your chin.
Your deathbed confession:
you never liked
them.
5 comments:
this is bittersweet.
and nice just as it is, but my ear wants to hear: "he never really liked them" (less abrupt)
and it might be cunning, since your interested in the effect of line breaks, to break that thought in two:
"he never
really liked them"
another cheeky thought is to drop "liked them" for "ate them" which says the same thing but leaves a slightly funnier ending....
I really like the images of the tiny file box, the sheets of music crinkling.
Breaking that second-last line before "them" makes it almost sound as though there was something else he didn't like... do you want that ambiguity there?
I really liked the description of the after eights, even though I don't like them either.
I wondered at the motivation of confessing this on a deathbed though.
Yes Joanne does point out an enjambment that causes some tension. If you don't want it then you never/liked them or you never liked them is less ambiguous. Because it almost sounds like "them" could be people, not just chocolates….
The ending made me smile. A deathbed confession... a time when all pretense can be let go of. Interesting how even something as small as this can cross a dying persons mind. I could see this being offered as humour or a way for the grandpa to lighten the mood. The title is sweet.
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