It’s only now, eight years later,

I consider that my grandpa—

a man who was almost an astronaut—

quite possibly knew what he was doing

on the Zoom call. It’s true, his best days

were behind him. He would go on

about the marvels of smart phone technology,

before repeatedly threatening to buy one,

as if a salesmen from Verizon was listening

in through the speaker. He still remembered

street names, Sinatra trivia, how to tie a clove hitch.

He sent letters on all of our birthdays.

It was painful to watch. Sitting in my car,

beside my six-month-pregnant wife, saying

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s just so inconvenient.

How could we have known, when booking

the tickets to Chicago, that one week prior,

Grandma would die in her sleep?

This was our baby moon. I mean,

it was the last time we could travel before

our life would irrevocably change.

There was a spot on the shore of Lake Michigan

where, if you looked out from the beach,

if the wind was still, blue would stretch on

to infinity. & my grandpa was there,

on the other side, looking left & right,

as if listening to a voice he didn’t recognize,

waving, like he didn’t even know me.