Too fast the summer leaves us, we kiss
our grandparents good-bye and my uncle Robert
is there waiting
to take us home again.
When we hug our grandfather, his body
is all bones and skin. But he is up now,
sitting at the window, a blanket covering
his thin shoulders.
Soon, I’ll get back to that garden, he says.
But most days, all I want to do
is lay down and rest.
We wave again from the taxi that pulls out
slow down the drive—watch our grandmother,
still waving,
grow small behind us and our grandfather,
in the window,
fade from sight.