Fallout (Crank 3)

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