Not Anything At All

Grandpa is nothing, not anything at all.

Motionless hands, mouth, eyes glued shut.

Dad cries. Puzzling. Why mourn the death of a monster?

Dad didn’t know. He should have known.

Dead. Hands, mouth, sit in stillness. Eyes glued shut.

I stand at the casket. No tears. No feelings at all.

Dad knew. He heard neighbors’ whispers.

How Grandpa’s hands, his mouth, perused my hairless private space.

I stand at the casket, neutral. No tears? Not today.

I touch his face. Yes, he’s dead. Thinking back, I ponder.

How Grandpa’s hands, mouth, ravaged my little girl space.

No anger. No joy. Nothingness was all.

I stand over him, looking down at his face. Dead.

Heavy pockets of skin drapes around thin lifeless lips.

Vacuum of nothingness.

Cadaver of bloodless bones.

Epidermis, deep crevices, droop over pencil lips.

Dad mourns. Lost his insidious twin. Duplicate blood in those veins.

Ghastly cadaverous empty bones.

Like Orthrus, the two-headed dog.

Two monsters. Poisoned blood, preys on little girls.

Dad cries. Why mourn the death of this monster?

Grandpa, Dad a two-headed dog.

Grandpa is nothing. Dad is not anything at all.