Kristen Baum DeBeasi

Apotheosis

On the day I learn my grandfather will die, I count.
It’s his hundred-and-first year. In six days, God created
all the stuff—heavens, earth, plants, animals.
And God saw that it was good. That’s what Genesis says.

And my grandfather, the carpenter, woodworker, giant,
at home with sawdust underfoot and hammer in hand, dwelt
on good things. So, on the day I learn my grandfather will die,
I remember things he thought were good: baseball games

and three holes of golf in the front yard. Lemon drops
and peppermints in a Cool Whip container in his work truck.
Croquet games. Snowmen so tall I could barely reach
the lowest lump of coal, and doubles skating with him,

the way he folded me into him and carried me above the rough river ice.
I remember how he would turn off his hearing aid
when everyone sat talking after the Sabbath meal, sly smile
on his face that told me nothing was going to change his world.

And in the bottom of the tenth month, on the 28th day,
God took my grandpa back. To me, he had walked on water
and on stilts, and as the years passed, he slowly shrank
to human size, his mind becoming as a little child’s.

In the end, the conspiratorial grin was gone. He slipped into sainthood
more quietly than he had arrived, doing everything
The Good Book said to do. And I saw that

it was good.

Kristen Baum DeBeasi is a poet, writer and composer whose poetry has appeared in Blue Heron Review, Contrary Magazine, Menacing Hedge and elsewhere. She is a Best of the Net nominee and was Moon Tide Press's Poet of the Month for July 2021. A native Oregonian, she now resides in Los Angeles. When she isn’t composing or writing, she loves testing new recipes, watching hummingbirds hatch, and collecting twigs for her fairy garden.