examined in the grove behind Poppop’s house. 

It is a fruit he held one summer 

between his index finger and thumb, lingering, 

as if he was posing for a painting. 

 

The old man

brushed bees off shaking children and carried ladybugs 

on his shirts for good luck.

 

Memory is the brutal summer our lips 

cracked in the heat. We were grandsons

waiting for him to peel the sun

He laughed as we sucked pulp into smiles. 

 

Another year,

another pandemic

of missing footsteps. 

 

My memories of him lean against a door frame.

When my birth father tried breaking

into our house, setting off the alarm

and zipping off down the block, I remember

Poppop joking, I think, about grabbing his shotgun.

 

I can still hear the scratch 

of his pencil against a crossword

in my study on Saturday mornings.

Is there a way to explain absence 

without listing what is left behind?