I remember the yellow light of the street lamps,
the car door opening, mom lifting me from the car seat.
I remember the brick building against the starless night
and walking towards that building with mom and dad by my side.
I remember snowflakes dancing beneath the glow of street lights—
I remember entering the room.
The whiteness of the walls,
the silver objects, the doctors and
their uniforms and face masks and
I remember my grandfather.
I remember him lying in the hospital bed.
He was wearing a hospital gown.
I remember how I convinced myself he had a hole
in his tummy from the cigarettes he would smoke.
I had believed that hole was the reason for him dying.
I remember riding in the backseat of the car
on the way to the funeral home, watching rain
dribble down the windows.
I remember the blinding headlights of passing cars
against the black puddles settling in the streets.
I remember the before and after, but I cannot remember death itself.