I am standing before the shelf
that holds the picture of you
as a boy on one of my visits
to your split-level brick house
that shouts, We made it.
Once when alone
I removed the picture from the frame
seeking to understand what made us
the wrong kind of family.
On the back I found two words written:
your name and another in a language
I could not read. Before anyone
could scold me I reassembled
the picture and set it back on the shelf.
That’s my Cherokee name
you said later
then pronounced it for me
but you spoke too fast
for me to repeat.
Why’d you go looking at that?
you asked, your eyes bulging
as if about to yell
but your mood turned
and you bobbed in place
letting me glimpse
the boy inside you.
Excitement hung
in the air like a static charge.
In that same spot
behind the recliner
in the den
we played once,
your scrunched brow
and downturned mouth
transformed into a bright-eyed smile.
You stepped towards me buoyant
as if outside in a field
or by a stream
your arm outstretched
almost whispering, Come Join me.
You arched back, your head tipped
a call escaped
as if a bird flew from your mouth
a call which I had never heard before nor since
a call someone taught you
a call I wanted you to teach me
but you turned and climbed
the short flight of stairs.
For the rest
of the day you stayed angry
the boy disappearing again.
Another time you gave me
my Cherokee name.
You joined me beside the shelf,
a different man. The boy in you now grown.
Your mouth opened and out
came my Cherokee name
except I couldn’t decipher it.
I only knew you were giving it to me
by the way you nodded
as if to say, That’s who you are now.
After, you grew quiet and I desperately
wanted you to repeat my name.

Ten years later
across from the picture
you lay in a portable bed
hooked up to an oxygen tank.
Cancer eating away
your lungs.
Dad drove me over with the
understanding it may be my last
visit with you.
By your bedside I said
what granddaughters
are supposed to say:
I’m sorry you’re sick.
I hope you’re comfortable.
Can I get you something to drink?
You stared past me, silent.
I followed your eyes to the picture
with your Cherokee name written
on the back.
What would have become of you
if that little boy
had flourished inside longer?
Would the Pendleton
blanket that would line your
coffin have remained
unwrapped for years to come?
Would you someday
have told me why you stored
Pendleton blankets for every member
of our family in the closet
upstairs, blankets I found
when I thought you were not looking.