He held the mermaids behind his back,
peering in just over the edge of the bathroom door
during their Mufasa duet.
Raised his eyebrows at me.
The girls were in the bath,
splashing and singing.
He said,
Should I give them now?
I shook my head.
Whispered—
No!
It was her seventh birthday.
I had gifts already:
a Barbie camper,
the farm vet doll
complete with baby sheep.
So I snatched the mermaids,
stuffed them under the sink.
Hid them. Said,
You can give them next time.
He didn’t say anything then.
I assumed that meant he agreed—
even though I knew
Grandpa never wanted to keep
anything fun from them
for even a moment—
and certainly not a week.
After,
I was still there.
They asked
for a bath again.
I brought the mermaids.
Told them
they were from Grandpa.
From before.
They didn’t ask why.
Even at 7 and 5,
I saw the contradiction in their eyes—
the joy of a new toy
from someone
who would never
again
see them play.
I still hear
his voice—
texts signed xoxo,
the notes in his kitchen drawer,
things he used to say:
Leave the window open.
Don’t grow up too fast.
I got them a little something.
Here you go.
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POETRY: Issue 35