Wrote this a year ago

Grandpa, I passed your grave today.
I was on the way to the DMV. It was so mundane.
But your death was the first death I knew.
How could these two things exist, nestled together in the same trip?
I didn't even have time to stop, smell the roses.

You were so long ago, I don't even remember what I called you.
My blonde hair has darkened to dunkel brown,
And onwards now to salted grey.
Would you even recognize the boy you taught to drive?
My hands on the wheel, and your feet on the pedals.

I never knew your wife, my grandmother,
despite her many years after you had gone to ground,
She was a vague memory of the person that raised your children.
Do I regret that? It simply is, I suppose.
But her death makes me wonder if I am too cold.

But then I think on Ave Maria, playing on your turn table,
The one memory I keep from childhood.
The sun in the bay window turns your house sepia,
And the smoke from your habit fills the room,
But I see a slice of heaven in the voices raised to God.