Some Notes from the Day You Died

Some Notes from the Day You Died

When we arrived

there was a police car parked at your gate

and three pairs of leather shoes neatly lined up

by the front door—none of which belonged to you.

When we arrived

the door to your bedroom was shut tight

and we found grandmother sitting in kotatsu,

eating the raisin bread, breaking it with fumbling hands.

When we asked

she kept saying that you woke her up at 4 a.m.,

asking her to help you go to the bathroom, and

said goodnight, as you went back to your heavy blanket.

When she woke up

you were dead on your stomach, arms raised

over your head, hands were clenched against the cold

air of morning, 9 a.m.—then there came the police officers.

When the officers

told us to stay away from the scene for the long

inspection, I was remembering the mirror on

the back of your door, which terrified me in the nights

when I stayed

at your house over the summer

years ago—curtains shone against the languid dark

as I peeked into the mirror too often, until I finally fell asleep.

When you fell

did you see yourself dying on the floor? That was

my first, and the last harsh question to you, grandfather,

or were you trying to reach someone in that blank mirror?

When the police

officers told us feel free to see him now, you were

laid in your futon again, arms still raised stiff in rigor

 mortis, nose and lips smeared with blood. I asked

When did he die,

exactly, what time? the officer said that would be

reported by the doctor after the autopsy, so sign this

paper, please, placing the form in front of grandmother.

When I touched

your hands to rub, hold, shake and hold once

again before they took you away, I was looking at

your favorite chair, and cane reflected in the mirror

alone, without you to hold it.