A poem by Will Burns.

In the afternoon my father
and I went from the hospital
straight to my grandfather’s
house. We took off our coats,
and sat down and I made coffee.
My grandfather muted
the television and asked how
his wife was.
She is the same, Dad.

* * *

We sat together for the first
time that I could remember –
just us, the three men.

* * *

On the morning that he died,
it began to rain from almost
the exact moment that my father
called to tell me. And although
this would have been
too sentimental for Grandpa’s
tastes, I was glad for a man,
who more than any of us,
was made of the water.