All I have left of my grandfather
is his hands,
his way of standing
soldier straight.

Of my grandmother, I have her
gravelly voice,
the smoke curling upward 
in the dark of the night.

Of my aunt, the
nickname she called me–

And my uncle,
the sound of his laughter,
his tipsy stumble the last Christmas,
his nap with socks on
in the bedroom in the corner.

How long is left
until I’ve lost
all the pieces
of the people I love?