I remember so clearly the great room

in my Granddad's house

on Redbank Road, out in Ohio.

Shaped like the bow of a boat, lined with sliding glass doors 

that led to the deck, to the pool, to the yard that ran all the way down to the lake.

The same yard where my Granddad shot Canada geese (“by accident”) 

and then stored them in black trash bags in the garage freezer—like a serial killer—

for my brother and me to joyfully encounter while hunting for ice cream bars. 

The hungry stone fireplace that hadn't been fed in years, 

where my brother and I bellowed air into each other’s mouths,

likely blowing carcinogens deep into our lungs.

The pool (and erstwhile ping-pong) table,

with its leather-fringed billiard pockets, 

its hardwood, carved oriental frame,

where I hit my head, far too many times to count,

playing with the Flounder toy 

that a young aunt or uncle had hidden away, up under the corner of the table long ago.

The lengthy, cracking, dark brown leather couch,

where my cousins and I all sat for a picture once,

and where, so many times, my brother and I watched cable cartoons 

too loudly. Then, we were yelled at from my Granddad’s bedroom balcony 

that overlooked the room, as if he were the Grinch with a heart two sizes too small

(as were his lungs from smoking cigarettes for seventy-one years,

the likely culprit of his lung cancer).  

Then there was the time my cousin, Mason, 

smashed a red velvet cupcake into my face,

cementing every square inch in moist red crumbs.

High up on shelves that seemed to climb and climb,

all the way up to the peaked ceiling, up above and behind the TV,

lay some of Granddad's many treasures,  

picked up on his worldly travels:

pots from India, Moroccan ceramics, a giant Italian glass cross with Jesus on it,

framed hieroglyphics from Egypt.

It seemed he had been everywhere possible, 

but he always returned to the great room

that looks out on the lake where his ashes now are.