Factory Film

One day, I got the call.

You were in the hospital.

It was stomach cancer.

You'd had surgery

and were being fed

via a tube.

But for some reason,

it never seemed that serious.

***

Your hospital was in

another state,

so I took a flight

to visit you.

Not because

you needed family,

but because I was having

a tough time

and needed family.

***

Everyone was in good spirits.

I'd bought a new laptop,

you joked about the

factory film

still being on.

It drove you nuts.

You begged me to remove

that plastic sheet.

***

We laughed some more.

But this was cancer, right?

Cancer is bad.

***

You were having

your bandages changed,

and we'd been asked to

leave the room.

I needed to catch

my flight home.

Time was dwindling.

I had to run.

Knocking on your door,

I poked my head in.

We had a rushed goodbye.

I said I'd see you later

and quickly left.

***

A few weeks later,

another call.

You were gone.

***

I still look back

in astonishment and anger.

Why wasn’t I expecting it?

Did everyone play this

awful situation down?

Why didn't I see it coming?

I'm still confused by how

you deteriorated so suddenly.

Your condition seemed to

just crumble away.

***

These days, whenever I buy

a new laptop,

I say,

“This one’s for you, Gran,”

as I tear that

factory film

away.