Though my grandfather died alone,
with no vestige in his mind of who I am,
lying in that snowy hospital bed,
I see his crooked smile in my mind
and I feel like I'm lying in the sun.
Why should my eyes bleed their salt?
Salty tears can't pull him back to life.
They only remind me of a heart that beats no more.
But a smile on my lips and
eyes that shine with warm remembrance
witness a Finnish voice that fondly
recalls the fox in the pine grove,
and calloused hands that scoop
vanilla ice cream into a root beer float
that sits on the white mat before me.
Root beer floats never tempted me,
but when I join him again,
I'll gladly drink another.

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"They think I'm crazy, but I know better. It is not I who am crazy... it is I who am MAD!"