Stage 3

Written by Alek Ridet, 2018

---

The lungs rotting

my grandfather was dying

the ambulance came and went

until one day

—when his well-oiled spectacle

was ready to be played—

it didn’t

9:37 a.m.

my mother and I

heard through the flickering voice of my grandma

that he was dead

and the whole car

the whole world shook

in the chill of silence.

On the third day

as the coffin rolled slowly

down into the furnace

an idea spread through my brain

What if he was not dead?

Yes

he was in South America

his heaven

-tobacco on the stalk

hot women-

going through the streets of Buenos Aires

fishing in the rios

growing tomatoes.

Still, I wondered

how did he save the money on a €700 pension?

Yes

he stuffed cash in his cigarette packs

until he was ready to leave.

So I wandered in the streets of Paris, London, New York, Tunis

looking for him

investigating potbellied men

with blue eyes

and an owl look

and while each of them disappointed me

the oblivious men I followed

left me

with a clearer definition of death

a clearer definition of him

of his misplaced anger with my grandmother

which was truly with himself

for he insanely loved her

and he loved me

so it became clear

my grandfather was dead and burnt

his ashes I once believed to be

newspaper and old receipts

were truly his flesh and bones

and I the last one to bear his name

had spread them in the sea

where the boat’s bells ring in concert with the church’s

to look at Sète where he grew up.

The tears came finally

at the realization of this loss

the loss of a man

for long I didn’t understand

a man

for long I could not love.

A man still alive

through tomatoes

through Buenos Aires—he had never seen

through me

A Man, Amen.