there is a bull on the street below us,
and my grandfather stands at my side.
an evening wind brushes
past us, bringing with it
and sweeping away the
mosquitoes and flies
who once balanced precariously
on the rusting balcony rail.
the bull snorts,
shaking its head to
the side as an insect
lands on his nose,
and light catches
his horns, throwing
ivory-tinted light
which blooms on the road.
you are going back
to America tomorrow,
right?
my grandfather asks
in his simple English,
wrinkled eyes staring
far past our neighboring
house and to the milky
blue sky.
yes,
I reply,
on Monday.
i say the words slowly,
scared this moment
will pass too quickly.
below, the bull lowers
his snout to the
grass on the roadside,
long and spindly,
the bones of his
back rising and falling
with his calculated
motion. he worries
about nothing but
how the air tastes
today.
monday.
monday?
next monday?
he repeats the words,
trying to grasp the fine
edges, the wild convulsions
of the conversation.
i nod.
yes.
in three days.
my grandfather’s
thick fingers grip tighter
around the balcony rail.
his weathered feet shuffle.
the bull’s folded white
blossom ears sway, and the
muscles of his rounded mouth
move visibly as he chews on
thought. he has not moved
any more than that for ten minutes.
will—
you will come
back again, right?
you are having fun
with us?
he turns to me now,
mouth molded into what
seems like a smile. the
battered towers of his teeth
show beneath his lips.
yes
i say,
my words stable
as I speak them.
i do not know why
i have answered so
surely, but it doesn’t
matter to me.
he smiles fuller now.
his lungi flutters gently in
a passing breeze as he turns again.
the bull, with his ivory
white body, brown smudged
spots, steep horns, mountain
of a back, rests now.
he snorts, huffs, the leather
of his skin stretched taut.
there is contentment in his stillness.
my grandfather lies on his
bed that evening, facing the window,
one hand beneath his head, cupping his ear,
and the other at his side.
he sleeps gently
as the bull does outside
with its deep brown
island eyes, and a breath
escapes his nose.
it is the most
relaxed breath
i have heard from him all day.
in his head,
i have not left yet.
Post Script: a poem for my grandfather, after this conversation we had three days before we left.