No more hills here by Ryan Yim

You are
unknowable.
I asked about you. They
did not know. You were a newsman
once. Then a company man once. Then
a rich man once. Then an old man. You were
an alcoholic. Undiagnosed. You would feign deafness. You
would frown. You frowned most of the day. And smiled at us. You
laughed when you saw me. I wonder where the metal in your mouth went. You
were cremated. But you had a burial site. I think. I did not linger on the photo my father
sent me. I confirmed that he looked sad. That your wife wiped her tears. That the crowd to see
you was small. You are unknowable. You did not let us see you when you suffered. You often
told us to go. You had your cake and did not eat it. You lived by your blood sugar. You did not
enjoy cake. You enjoyed wine. You were stubborn. You went to church. Until you stopped. You
cried when you prayed. Until you stopped. You lived long. You said so yourself. You lived far.
You said so yourself. You were quiet. You liked Pavarotti. You liked radio. You liked flat caps.
You wore checkered shirts. You made blunders. Father called them that. For your sake. You had
a cane. You refused a wheelchair. You fell once. Blood leaked from the bridge of your nose. You
breathed heavily through your mouth. I grabbed a stranger’s phone and called for father. I
thought you hated me. You did not remember. You were gruff in your wedding photo. Your
sharp eyebrows. Your stiff frame. Your frown. You did not recognize your own son
in his baby photo. You did not remember my name. You were there.
Somewhere in the tan hills. I remember you when I remember them.
Brother told me we buried our kings there. You remember him.
He looks like you. You are unknowable.
I do not know you. I love you.
When I am home again.
I will see you.
And ask.