We all went to help get knickknacks,
and books,
and pictures.
My grandfather sat in his new room, quiet,
and I wondered if he was here.

There are so many distractions in this
Long Term Care Facility
(a nice euphemism for nursing home).
A popcorn machine,
a library,
a television blaring cartoons.
All things to make it seem
more comfortable
for the long,
inevitable
decline.

My grandfather keeps asking
when my aunt will get here
and when my grandmother will get here
and we don’t want to tell him that they aren’t coming.
When we do, he just sits quiet.

There is a woman here, with him,
an older woman from the church.
She asks after us grandkids,
full of smiles with yellowing, ancient teeth.
We are all going to die.

Still, though, my grandfather sits quiet
and I wonder where he is.
I wish he would talk, so if he didn’t recognize us,
I could say, ‘oh, yes, all old people do this.’
But instead he is trapped,
voluntarily or otherwise,
somewhere we cannot reach to grasp him, pull him back.

And when people ask me how my grandfather’s doing
The only thing I can say is
I don’t know.