Maybe fate was kind to me

saving me from my grandpa’s funeral. 

There was no middle point,

time jumped from him bursting with sunlight of optimism, 

jokes, blankets of kindness always in stock

to a hill of flowers - fresh reminders of the full stop.

May was the month when it happened, 

mayday of 1999 to be exact.

Maybe I am not fit for it, 

destined to skipping the step 

between the world of living and dead. 

My grandma’s funeral some twenty years later 

was a sad poorly attended ritual,

on a hard cold winter day.

I saw pictures.

New country embraces were metal

I couldn’t unbend at that time,

I could not be there with her.

And yet, it is a solace many years later 

how I remember her holding a bouquet of asters 

even though gladioluses were her favorite flowers.

This departure squeezed my insides into a puddle.

May that January never repeat itself. 

She gave me her last hug in 4 in the morning 

thousands miles away, in another part of the world

her heart stopped but she was alive there with me,

falling softly on the ground of the bar backyard

where I was standing in awe

at the first snow of year 2020.