Today, I'll just be here sitting in the corner, people watching as I drink a glass of Tears, and maybe the some cider to follow it down. Today is 11th August, my grampa's birthday. So I'm not so much in the mood to party, but to smoke weed and drink to numb the loss, and watch the memories float in the glass.

Like that time he was driving a log truck, shortly before he retired. We were riding up from Amboy, Washington to Tacoma, on the back country roads. I was on winter break from my seventh grade year. That night, we were due to head up to Spokane and then to our hometown in the North Idaho panhandle.

It was the only time I ever rode in a semi, and I was enjoying it, watching the countryside and listening to him tell me stories about his siblings, most of whom were already gone at that point. He was the youngest of thirteen, and survived them all.

Anyway, we entered the land of the perpetual stench, Dairy Country. We drove by one, and and elbowed me. He pointed at the farm and said, that's a cowshit factory.

I looked at him stunned for a moment, because at 13, this was the first time I ever heard my Mormon grandfather curse, especially to me. Later, I realised he treated me like an adult for the first time, like here I was a young teen growing up.

The following summer, I when I returned home for another school break, he taught me to shoot.

I am sorry for being a killjoy. The scar is still fresh. He and gramma were married for 74 years when she died. He loved her more than anything, and more than anything he wanted to join her. When the family told him it was ok, he went.

Happy birthday, old man.


My Grandfather’s Ring

I wear his ring.

It’s not the one he wore
for seventy four years.

       That one’s worn through.

But I can feel his blue eyes
wrapped in the diamond
woven between golden layers

when I twist it
on my finger.

© Nathan Tompkins