My great-grandparents, none of whom
I ever knew myself, nonetheless had been
Sasha for decades, living in the memories
Of my parents, aunts, uncles, older cousins.
But the parents, aunts, and uncles, save two
Remaining, had become sasha themselves,
As well as most of the oldest cousins. Soon
My great-grandparents would be zamani,
The truly dead, held in no living memory
However distorted by time, records only,
A few stories passed down by their sasha
Descendants to the currently living,
Secondary and tertiary reports of memories.
This second death comes to everyone,
Even playwrights and emperors. Memory
Must move on like any other phenomenon.
Why was I thinking of such things, sitting
Across from daughter at the canyon mouth?
Someone called me grandpa, common
Mistake, and it occurred to me that our gap
Was such as to make it unlikely I'd ever be
Anyone's grandfather but also then that this
Little being was most likely to keep me
In sasha for decades, the last to release me.
And I looked at her differently, the last
To actually remember me. But I don't believe
In such notions, actually. One death for me.
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