for those who have the patience.
i was afraid my mother would disown me after hearing me read this, but instead she cried and said she was proud of me. go figure. also, thank you again nikki for attending.
Grandpa doesn’t really know me, does he?
No, I don’t suppose he would.
Because before I had even begun growing up
He was busy being locked up for doing something heinous.
The blood that stained the house would make him famous for a day or two.
And maybe I’m just really too forgiving but
I don’t think he meant to shoot you, Grandma.
No, I don’t think he meant to shoot you.
But maybe he did
I don’t know, that’s just the way it always seemed when I was still a kid.
But I don’t think he meant to shoot you, Nina.
No, I don’t think he meant to shoot you.
But I wouldn’t know because I wasn’t there
I was busy being force-fed Gerber’s in my high chair.
Yet I still dream about it.
Occasionally, late at night when I’m alone I sit and think about how
A man could come to this conclusion
To grab a gun and just start shooting at his loved ones.
How can it be that while surround by his family he insisted
Climbing ridges on his own and picking at the stitches of his self-inflicted wounds
And leaving us behind him in his ditches.
Grandpa, no man is an island until he’s burned all of his bridges.
I guess it’s a bit too late for that.
But still I can’t help but wonder what I could’ve done to help him understand
Because I’m tired of seeing him as the man in the black trench coat in my dreams
Holding his head in his hands.
See, I don’t think he meant to shoot you, Grandma.
No, I don’t think he meant to shoot you.
At least thinking so puts me at ease
And that’s what the man in my dreams wants me to believe.
I just have trouble wrapping my head around it all
The cold-blooded, calculated method,
The precision cultivated by a man fed up and frustrated
Wishing to eradicate all life as he had made it
Makes my flesh crawl.
The image of this man stalking down the hall
Gun in hand, eyes screaming, “Fuck it all! I’m getting out!
I’ve got the power and I’ve lost the will to care about your life!”
Just doesn’t sit well with me.
See, I don’t think he meant to shoot you, Nina.
No, I don’t think he meant to shoot you.
But I can’t ask him now because he died
And maybe I’m wrong for wanting to believe he was a nice guy
So I’m sorry if I’m raising some complaints
I didn’t mean to
It’s just the baby fat that is my teen angst is something I have yet to shed
And in my head this person’s dead
And shouldn’t hold any relevance to me when all I know him for is causing pain
And with that said
Why do I still dream about him?
Is it because I’m scared
That I’ll turn out the same way that he did
A crack pot firing shots into my own kids?
My father seemed to care
He seemed to know how to put the stress away
At least for most of the day when he would take sips.
And while I’m at it
Dad, I don’t think he meant to shoot at you.
No, I don’t think he meant to shoot at you.
Okay, fuck it, yes he did.
But I won’t turn out the same unless I let it, right?
If you can do it I can do it
We’re stronger than most
We will not play host to paralyzing fear
That comes with a betrayal in the grossest sense of the word
We will not let his ghost come back to finish what he started.
Dearly departed, please stay underneath the dirt.
We will not charter your return to the Earth.
We will not let you stain another birth.
We will not tolerate the level hurt that you’ve left
And we will not allow your memory to become a curse.
But in between the seams of my waking life and dreams
I’ll find a balanced place for you to rest
Under the shade of my forgiveness, Grandpa.
I still wish I could’ve known you better.
Grandpa doesn’t really know me, does he?
No, I don’t suppose he would.
Because before I had even begun growing up
He was busy being locked up for doing something heinous.
The blood that stained the house would make him famous for a day or two.
And maybe I’m just really too forgiving but
I don’t think he meant to shoot you, Grandma.
No, I don’t think he meant to shoot you.
But maybe he did
I don’t know, that’s just the way it always seemed when I was still a kid.
But I don’t think he meant to shoot you, Nina.
No, I don’t think he meant to shoot you.
But I wouldn’t know because I wasn’t there
I was busy being force-fed Gerber’s in my high chair.
Yet I still dream about it.
Occasionally, late at night when I’m alone I sit and think about how
A man could come to this conclusion
To grab a gun and just start shooting at his loved ones.
How can it be that while surround by his family he insisted
Climbing ridges on his own and picking at the stitches of his self-inflicted wounds
And leaving us behind him in his ditches.
Grandpa, no man is an island until he’s burned all of his bridges.
I guess it’s a bit too late for that.
But still I can’t help but wonder what I could’ve done to help him understand
Because I’m tired of seeing him as the man in the black trench coat in my dreams
Holding his head in his hands.
See, I don’t think he meant to shoot you, Grandma.
No, I don’t think he meant to shoot you.
At least thinking so puts me at ease
And that’s what the man in my dreams wants me to believe.
I just have trouble wrapping my head around it all
The cold-blooded, calculated method,
The precision cultivated by a man fed up and frustrated
Wishing to eradicate all life as he had made it
Makes my flesh crawl.
The image of this man stalking down the hall
Gun in hand, eyes screaming, “Fuck it all! I’m getting out!
I’ve got the power and I’ve lost the will to care about your life!”
Just doesn’t sit well with me.
See, I don’t think he meant to shoot you, Nina.
No, I don’t think he meant to shoot you.
But I can’t ask him now because he died
And maybe I’m wrong for wanting to believe he was a nice guy
So I’m sorry if I’m raising some complaints
I didn’t mean to
It’s just the baby fat that is my teen angst is something I have yet to shed
And in my head this person’s dead
And shouldn’t hold any relevance to me when all I know him for is causing pain
And with that said
Why do I still dream about him?
Is it because I’m scared
That I’ll turn out the same way that he did
A crack pot firing shots into my own kids?
My father seemed to care
He seemed to know how to put the stress away
At least for most of the day when he would take sips.
And while I’m at it
Dad, I don’t think he meant to shoot at you.
No, I don’t think he meant to shoot at you.
Okay, fuck it, yes he did.
But I won’t turn out the same unless I let it, right?
If you can do it I can do it
We’re stronger than most
We will not play host to paralyzing fear
That comes with a betrayal in the grossest sense of the word
We will not let his ghost come back to finish what he started.
Dearly departed, please stay underneath the dirt.
We will not charter your return to the Earth.
We will not let you stain another birth.
We will not tolerate the level hurt that you’ve left
And we will not allow your memory to become a curse.
But in between the seams of my waking life and dreams
I’ll find a balanced place for you to rest
Under the shade of my forgiveness, Grandpa.
I still wish I could’ve known you better.