At the Local Graveyard

I went to the local graveyard
with my grandfather
since his knees were hurting
from the pain of age.
We walked along the pathway, from the gate,
looking for the perfect
spot to rest his legs. He bid me look
for shade and a view
from which to gaze across the yard
at its many rows.
He place his hand upon my knee
when we had sat,
and looked me straight in the eyes—
I had never seen
him so serious before. I was shocked
and afraid of what
he would say, considering the location.
He looked away
and nodded slowly to himself
as if resolving
some ageless torment that had been
festering in his mind.
I waited patiently for him to speak.
I could see the words
forming on the edges of his shaking lips
and then he sighed,
as if to let it out, all his reservations.

We stared at the many rows of polished stone
that spanned the view
before us, and it seemed to me, just then,
that voices called out
to whisper some hidden, forbidden truth.
My grandfather heard
it too, and looked sharply at the scene,
the plain of stone.
He remained quietly transfixed upon
the signs I could not
read—the voices I could not hear.

He squeezed my knee with softness,
preparing me to hear
the conclusions he had drawn
from the many heads of stone.
He said my name. I turned to him.
He began to say,
"Son, when I die and my own soul
has left my body—
I don't want to be buried like a chump!
Or cremated like a coward!
Strap me to a rocket and blast a hole through Heaven."