Untitled

My grandmother mentioned
In passing
The softness of her late teenage son's hair
My mother's brother
Casually.

And I ponder on their pain
And their humanity
And the rawness I did not see them experience.
Somewhere between dinner and dessert
I ache to look at them and say:
"You brought me here. How can I make you happier? How can I ease the sorrow of your memories?"

But I fear the question is laughable
Or irrelevant
Or too late
So I don't say anything.

And I panic about the time.