An Alternate Olympics

A little over a year ago, my grandmother died. I know, that's a terrible way to begin a story. I once read a short story where, in the first paragraph, the main characters accidentally kills an infant. I think that tops what I just did, so you should feel lucky.

She had Alzeheimer's, so her passing was positive - it was her time, so to speak. And it was actually a blessing, because we had a week's notice, and everyone who knew her was able to fly in and say goodbye. All the men my dad grew up with came to the house; it was where they all stayed when they were younger. They told many stories, and my favorite is this: there were five boys, all within a year of each other, that lived in her house. Every fall, each boy would invite four friends, and the 25 kids would be split into 5 teams of 5, and my grandfather would run an Olympics, with basketball games and sprinting events and a spades tournament. But the best event was hot wax tolerance. Each team would pick one kid, and the kid would hold out his arm, and hot wax would be poured on it. Whoever didn't wimp out won the gold.

I read a poem I wrote at the funeral. I wrote it when she was unconscious, and people were filing in and our of her room, whispering about hot wax tolerance.

look at me
i have four foot wings
as thin as my skin
and the color of my boys

rising up from my bed
i am floating to a place
where the stars are halfway
between silence and noise

look at me
i am an angel
i am done with changes
i am completely released

i have held on forever
but forever is over
this is me going
away with the east

look at me
yet not while you're crying
with your feet on the ground
and your minds set on mourning

i am a satellite drifting
but i am not drifting
i am not an old woman
on morphine

look at me
i have four foot wings
the skies are all mine
but where are my loved ones

i am a spirit
but they are still bodies
this is me saying
goodbye to my sons