going through the familiar motions
laughter free. The kitchen throbs
silence. The sound of my sock-padded
footsteps echoes, wall to wall to wall.
I yank open the cupboard, grab
the necessary utensils, clanging them
cacophonously. Noise to battle
the hush-edged aloneness.
Then I line up ingredients in correct order.
Cinnamon. Cranberries. Oranges. Sugar.
CRANBERRIES SIMMERED
Sugar, orange peel, and cinnamon
added. Everything in a pretty glass
bowl, gelling rich red in the fridge,
it occurs to me that contributing
to the eardrum-slicing quiet is the fact
that Grandfather has not yet appeared.
We should leave before too very
long. I explore. Living room? Empty.
Hall? No sign of anything living.
Foreboding strikes suddenly. I march
right up to Grandfather’s bedroom door.
Knock, half expecting no answer.
But on the far side, a drawer closes.
The sound precedes footsteps
across the complaining wood floor.
Coming, Grandfather calls. Coming.
Twice, as if convincing himself
he really needs to get a move on.
I imagine him pajama-clad