Grandpa

You would hate the idea,
Still I want to get tattooed for you
I was thinking
A pair of sneakers
And the word pathetic,
On the right side of my left calf
For all the times you would look up and down
Your eyes fall on a family member’s shoes
Mine, perhaps green converse, red and black checked laces
And then you would croak out the same verdict
Pathetic!

And all of us would laugh
Every single time. Grandma too
After 60 years together
That I knew not to envy
You were a bossy husband, a lacking father
Trained in leave me alone
Let the kids win and lose their own battles
Make their own pick-up games in Pittsburgh Birdland lots
Offer comments only if the kids try to wear white socks
Or show evidence of being Hippie-Democrats

You stopped going up to Canada before I could remember
Though there’s that picture of me in your arms
On the porch overlooking the family stretch of Lake Erie
Both of us bald, you tan and looking more the Navy man
then usual. You holding me aloft
As you sit in a beach chair looking so happy to look at me

And then there’s the photo of you, Grandma and Aunt Boo
At a party in your 50s (You went to parties, Grandpa?)
When Grandma’s hair still lingered Red
As your nickname for her
Boo’s leg is draped across your lap
And you beam, as Grandma feigns shock
Here is my sister-in-law’s leg, your face says
And I don’t think I ever saw you look
Quite like that

I can’t put any of that on my left calf, Grandpa

But I thought about a bigger tattoo
Maybe just black ink
One of your mix tapes you made from the radio
Carefully wrote down the song and artist
Then lost the all the covers
The tapes scattered on your TV tray
But you could always find the one you were looking for
Your stop and start was always a little slow
So you would push play and
Trumpet, saxophone, piano, someone swinging out some old song
Maxine Sullivan, Frank Sinatra, Count Basie the king

You saw them all long before
You ever saw me
But I used to sit and see you
Play air piano, bobbing your head
You might say listen to this cat
Listen to how he played the horn
I learned to love the music
But to love watching you more

I’d like to put all that in the tattoo you would hate
But I’d stop, like all children’s stories, before the end
Before your heart seized and faded you away
No longer king, but trapped in your old chair
Like a cicada skin stuck fast to an oak tree
Dazed most of the day

You couldn’t keep your head up
You couldn’t stay warm
In spite of the space heater
Grandma tried to bring back Basie, Benny, Peggy
But they wore out
When you wore out

And Grandpa
When they took you to the hospice
Dad called me
Told me not to come
So I followed my sudden, choking need
For a pack of the Dentyne cinnamon gum you used to chew
(Not the Marlborough Reds that clogged your heart)
And then I found a Maxine Sullivan record

And I just missed my chance to tell you
How much I learned to love that damn record

Maybe I should just get a tattoo
With all the things I hadn’t said yet
On my the right side of my left calf, I’ll have the tattoo man write
Grandpa, did you ever see Jack Teagarden?
Why wasn’t Maxine Sullivan as big as Peggy Lee?
I almost like her better, Grandpa
But you have to love Peggy Lee