My grandfather passed away recently, and it is not something I like to talk about.  My culture has taught me to tuck emotions deep inside your stomach, and let the hydrochloric acid dissolve every piece of these emotions until they are indiscernible.

I think about him often.  I have written a lot of poetry about him. But nothing seems to get the feeling of guilt out of my mind.  Guilt for not visiting him enough.  Guilt for not telling him I loved him enough.  Guilt.  Guilt.  Guilt.

My grandfather loved watching Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune, and all of the grandkids would crowd around him to watch it when we were young.  He barely spoke a word of English, but we all had a sneaking suspicion that he always knew exactly what we were talking about because how the hell could you enjoy watching those shows without understanding English?

But I think my favorite memory with my grandfather involves watching something different.

My grandfather used to smoke cigarettes.  Because of my asthma, my mother would always make him smoke outside.  Because I loved my grandfather, I would always sit next to the glass door and watch him as he smoked on our front steps in the evening.

When he eventually put out his cigarette, he would turn around and motioned for me to come over.  I would curl up next to him, and we would watch the sunset together.

I remember the soft summer breeze.

I remember the way the two of us silently watched the sky change from
blue jays to
coral blankets that blended into
a shade of lavender that clung to the walls of my room.

And when everything around me goes crazy, I will venture into my backyard.  I will sit on the canopy porch swing.  I will watch the sky change from
blue jays to
coral blankets that blend into
a shade of lavender that used to cling to the walls of my room.

And whenever I miss my grandfather a little too much, I close my eyes and watch the memory over and over again.

-Michelle Cherian