My grandfather cooked us breakfast
Every year on Christmas morning
We would all awaken to the sounds
Slipping through the kitchen doorway –
The sizzling of the pan, the whipping of the eggs, the buzz of the timer
And the gentle hum of a Frank Sinatra tune
Coming from his deep strong throat
As we'd watch him in all his glory
Stride across the linoleum like a king
In his "Kiss the Cook" apron and green and red
Checkered towel flung carelessly over his shoulder
Until his regal masterpiece was completed
And the glow of victory on his face
Would lure us through the doorway,
Still in our pajamas and slippers,
Our eyes daring the ornament-covered tree to burn brighter
Our hearts thumping with great anticipation
Of the day to come
The smell of his aftershave, sweet and familiar,
Passed by our noses as we kissed his cheek
In thanks
The Christmas morning rituals were expected
Like the moon and the stars and the sun
Always there before
Always will be there

My grandfather lay sprawled out on
The snow-white sheets with perfect
Corners, the red emergency button
Next to him on the wall
The gentle hum of the life machine
Replaced the songs in his own throat
With sullen eyes but a proud heart
He refused to give in to the nurse's pleas
To eat his breakfast
Because the cook always preferred
His own eggs Benedict
To strawberry Jell-O.