I was eating with family
at an eccentric restaurant.
Twirling my pasta with a spoon because it makes me feel fancy.
And then a song comes on that reminds me of my poppi.
I stop eating because my gut reaction is
I’m not hungry because he is dead.
I start to play with my food
and no one has noticed that I am upset.
But then I think about how he would want me to be happy
and remember him as the poppi he was
I lost three grandparents in seven years,
and I know they would want me to thrive.
So I write this for them.