Dear Grandpa

I found three in a row this week:

One in the slushy parking lot

on the chunk of sidewalk that bridges

the street and still snow-dusted cars together.

It was covered in gravel-infested snow.

I almost didn’t pick it up.

One between the rusted metal

of the theater’s threadbare cushioned seats

crammed so closely together that I bruised my armpit

while straining to reach it.

It was covered in devilish dust bunnies.

I almost didn’t pick it up.

One nestled in the alcohol-stained

mud-covered wordless welcome mat

inside the cramped little box

that grants access to the dorms inside.

It was covered in god-knows-what.

I almost didn’t pick it up.

I’m sorry I couldn’t touch you

as you were lying there in that bed

an empty shell

surrounded by white, white, white.

I was afraid that if I did

you would grab my hand

and honk that goose laugh of yours

and tell me it was all a joke.

I’m sorry that I couldn’t finish the song

you requested that I sing

as I looked out at all the mourning faces

and felt a lump form in my throat

preventing the sound from escaping.

I was afraid that if I kept on singing

my tears would drown out the music

and they wouldn’t get to hear

“The Wind Beneath My Wings.”

I’m sorry that I promised you a strawberry milkshake

but when I ordered one a couple weeks later

the frozen strawberry chunks

made my teeth ache

and I never finished it.

I was afraid that if I did

it would be my last one.

I had no one to share it with anyways.

Thanks for the shining copper reminders.

When I find them,

I pocket them

and collect them

in the mason jar above my dresser.

I’m told they’re “pennies from heaven.”

Either way their worthlessness

is worth more than the world

to me.