handfuls of air

I watch my grandfather sitting in his rocker,

smiling into the distance, eyes glazed.

It is Christmas again at my grandmother's house,

all warmth and bustle and routine cheer.

No one speaks to him. They cast furtive glances.

My mother smiles nervously, eyes wet.

My uncle can't stop talking about him:

"We're so glad he's here."

We open gifts but my grandfather

doesn't receive any. He gives only grins.

His face turns and he looks

but does not seem to see.

He offers no words. Christmas music

speaks for him in the background

behind his head so pale

it's almost transparent.

We surround the dining table,

eating with my grandmother's silverware

she brings out once a year.

The conversation is crooked.

Every sentence is strained, scripted.

My father, mother, brother

all speak but say nothing new.

I drop my fork in defeat, appetite gone.

My grandfather does not eat. He remains

seated in his rocker in the den

surrounded by torn packaging and forgotten gifts.

After the meal, my grandmother

catches me staring at him.

She pulls me aside and grips my forearm.

"David, I need to show you something."

She leads me down the hall to the office

and opens the door. Inside, on the desk:

a beating heart in a glass box -

pumping desperately, tired veins bulging.

"We are trying to keep it alive," she says

and slams the door shut.