I Will See You Tomorrow

I Will See You Tomorrow

I have never seen a face so pale, white

like the walls that smelled like medicine.

His eyes were dark as the nights I slumbered

with broken chairs and cheap blankets.

We woke up to hour old eggs and thick sausage that left

a bile taste in the back of your throat, that made you

feel for the struggling war veterans and new mothers.

Bad enough was the moaning of the neighbor next door

or the continuous beeping of the machine that kept you alive,

consumed by the fear that one day your heart will

tell it to stop.

He was back in Europe when the doctors last spoke to him,

his eyes glared at my grandmother like a dog to an

unwelcomed guest. I didn't dare take a step forward,

what if I scared him? The clock spun as fast as the ceiling fan

as my heart skipped several beats to my grandfather's pulse

that slowed down with every struggling breath.

My grandmother held his hand and spoke in a whisper so

soft you could wrap yourself up in it.

After what seemed like days I walked in, with a fake smile,

trying not to stare at the veiny, blue balloon that lingered

on the innocent man's chest, every breath making it look

like it could pop any second.

The doctors told us to leave before I could get any closer,

the pulse on the machine seemed so slow I was afraid

of the monotone that I've heard in the movies.

I kept my eyes locked on him before I left, wondering if this

might be the last time I saw him blink. The words cracked

on their way, out of my dry mouth, words I will always remember:

"Bye Grandpa, I'll see you tomorrow."