I stand in the opening

of my daughter’s 

pale yellow bedroom

looking over her bed.

 

I dreamed him

lying on his side

like he would so often

In the New Delhi winter.

 

Morning fog dampening

his thin bones,

his paper bag skin.

His maroon knit cap

keeping the warmth 

from escaping his bald skull.

 

His thick specs hide his warm eyes.

He sleeps like a babe in utero

just next to my daughter’s curls.

They are at peace and safe. 

My four year old

girl, living, and

my 89 year old

grandfather, passed.

I dreamed him.