What I Remember of You Alive by Zander Crowns

What I Remember of You Alive

On some sticky summer evening,
you wore a black shirt, were bald, and
walked down a hall with wood floors and white walls.
You liked pickle relish.
You went by Grumpy, a nickname
you made to set you apart from my
other grandpa (Well, I didn’t know
that last part until your urn had
rested in a crypt for four years).
I remember the night before you died.
I wasn’t with you (I didn’t know why at the time).
My mom gathered my siblings and me in a room with blue walls
(I don’t remember the floor color).
The ceiling fan light draped a sleepy white glow over us.
Mom said you were going to
die soon and that we should say a prayer.
So we did (I don’t remember the words).

All the rest, how your two bombing runs ran awry,
how you stole a box of staplers during your
college tenure, how you voted for Wonder
Woman in every presidential election since 1962, how
your dad wished he had not given you his name,
is a patchwork sewn together
by those who knew you longer than I did.

*

Zander Crowns hails from the hills of Spicewood, Texas, but presently lives in the Dallas-Fort Worth area. He is a student at Southern Methodist University, pursuing a major in both English and film.