I remember once in a store,
I saw a foreign man wearing beaded scarves and frilled pants.
I asked my grandfather why he was wearing bizarre clothes and he said to me,
“A sentence doesn’t tell a story.”
I gave him a curious look but thought nothing of it.

But later when I saw an older man with an oxygen tank by his side I was scared and gripped my grandfather’s arm tightly.
Yet, he slipped out of my grasp and went to help the elders with his groceries.
The old man smiled and said in his boldest voice, “thank you.”
My grandfather took me by the hand and as we walked away he said,
“His recent breaths are shallow but he has breathed a million healthy ones like you and I.” Once again I gave him a curious look but thought of it only as coincidental.

But one bone-chilling day in February I took the life-changing journey to my grandpa’s house and my mom told me to hush as we walked up the porch steps.
Instead of my grandfather, though, I saw a ghastly white man with his life freezing over.
I asked a million questions in my frantic eyes.
In a soft voice the truth was revealed.
Suddenly I knew what my grandpa was talking about. All of it made sense.
As the days started to fade, my hopes for a fairytale ending went with them.
But my comprehension only made my fire burn brighter, giving me a spark to realize,

One
Day
It
Will
Be
Me