Grandfather - Estranged

It wasn’t mine to cry for,

not my grandfather, not my grief.

Yet there it was, spilling—

a river un-dammed, salt tracing

the lines of a face that was never his.

They say people like me

don’t feel it, can’t hold it—

but what, then, is this ache

that presses against my ribs,

a ghost of loss I hardly met?

Grief is a gift passed down,

a second-hand coat draped heavy

on shoulders that never asked—

but still, I wear it, still,

I understand its weight.