Monterey
by Zacchai (Sage) Singer
My grandmother, Toshiko
turned the box to face the door,
so that he could see his daughter's family
as they come through the doorway
of this old seaside house
where he, Papa, would whistle
flight of the bumblebee to us
all sat at the dinner table.
My grandmother, she carries this box,
the ashes of her husband Bill.
Now, she turns him back to the ocean,
so he watches the pelicans fall
slowly over the waves.
I know he loved this,
and to gather sand dollars,
on his morning walks with his wife.
We gather for him now, laying the bodies
in neat rows of full moons
to dry in the morning sun.
My grandmother, Toshiko,
more orderly without him.
We visit this house of many windows, all of which show
scenes or faces we've witnessed times before;
this poem has many endings,
all of which are contained
in my body or the body of my grandmother,
but none of which are written here.