The Book of Weston

I watch my grandfather sitting in his rocker,

smiling into the distance, eyes glazed.

It is Christmas again at his house,

all warmth and bustle and routine cheer.

No one speaks to him. They cast furtive glances.

My mother smiles nervously, eyes wet.

My uncle can't stop talking about him:

"We're so glad he's here."

We open gifts but my grandfather

doesn't receive any. He gives only grins.

His face turns and he looks

but does not seem to see.

Christmas music speaks for him

in the background, behind his head

so pale it's almost transparent.

We surround the dining table,

eating with the silverware

my grandmother brings out once a year.

The conversation is crooked.

Every sentence strained.

My father, mother, brother

all speak but say nothing new.

I drop my fork in defeat, appetite gone.

My grandfather does not eat. He remains

seated in his rocker in the den

surrounded by torn packaging, forgotten gifts.

After the meal, my grandmother

catches me staring at him.

She pulls me aside and grips my forearm.

"I think it's best I show you something."

She leads me down the hall to the office

and opens the door. Inside, on the desk:

a beating heart in a glass box -

pumping desperately, tired veins bulging.

"We are trying to keep it alive," she says

and slams the door shut.