In one room
my grandmother begs for peace.
She cries for her mother,
screams in confusion and pain.
 
In the kitchen, he cooks dinner alone.
Smelts, fresh bread, salad, a beer.
I watch my grandfather as he moves 
quiet and purposeful.
 
He fries the fish as he holds back tears.
He hears his wife cry out in pain.
His own is angry, frustrated.
He tells me,
 
“this was not supposed to happen.
This is not how I imagined the end.”
 
He sits at the kitchen table 
the Steelers’ game plays in front of him
He does not notice me watching
as he drizzles hot sauce on his meal.
 
He turns, sensing me behind him, 
tells me to grab a plate.
I do, knowing this is an important offering.
 
He fixes me dinner, 
too many smelts than I can stomach, 
salad, and bread.
I begin to eat silently next to him
 
This is his language of love.
 
He gets up suddenly 
grabs a glass from the cupboard
pours half of his beer in the glass.
He hands it to me.
 
I drink. I take him in. 
I say nothing. Because I know 
he needs this. He needs me 
to be silent with him, to eat 
the food he has made 
to accept what love 
he has left to give. 
 
To do something 
anything.