I’ll tell them their grandfather
must have lived in a tall building
discreetly adorned
with black and white photographs
books without folded pages
underlined sharply
and hardy plants
placed evenly
in front of a sea
that half the time
cannot be seen
through the mist.
That didn’t make him sad beyond measure,
because his shining hazel eyes
left home only on weekends.

I’ll tell them that we lived together in Barcelona
like teenagers
when we were pushed to grow up,
that we slept in expensive hotels
of Eastern Europe,
and on sofas of friends
in the First World of Europe,
that he took photos of me kidnapped
in museums and bookstores
or distracted by natural light
in other places.
I, in contrast,
took few photos of him
because I preferred to remember it
with seeing him
eating an apple pastry
on a terrace near the canal
or sitting next to a statue
in a hotel in San Sebastian
nailing me
savagely
because he liked what I have inside.