Old Radio

for my yéye (grandpa)

photo credit: weiwei

“When the old radio stopped working,
no one knew what to do.”

“And that’s okay,” he says,
“with half a pint of whisky,
I can be on my way.”

Wrinkles on his hand
grow like wild ivy on brownstone.
So at the age of eight,
I started practicing farewell.
Fearing the loss of recognition,
I take pictures of his green vest,
tai-chi shirt,
birthday cakes.

But now,
on the westward train,
I’ve lost my mind
thinking about returning
to a place with light
but no truth

and how time is an open wound
that neither bleeds nor heals.

“It’s not that bad,”
he says,
“after I close my eyes,
at least,
for the first time,
there’s no need to worry about dinner tomorrow.”