Being 98

he wished for a 100 years jubilee

His stare glued to the window glass some apple trees

some rotten fruits a muddy path

or snow, in case it was winter.

I could hear his steps

above my parents’ bedroom.

I said I would visit him again

when I’d come back from my journey.

He died that night,

silent fallen stars closed his eyelids.

I remember he told me about times

when he used to work in a factory across the river

the bridges were not yet built

and the workers would cross the river by boat

every morning and evening.

I remember he told me about times he worked

in Siberian forests while being exiled.

Once he fell into the icy river water

where log rafts were being transported.

He almost drowned.

In his world of ninety eight years there was one thing

he never got to see or hear.

The sea.

I never brought him to the sea.

The reason maybe was

I didn’t get my driving license on time.

It took me five attempts.

The sea is now three hundred kilometers away

I drive there to scatter

centenarian’s ashes in salty winter waves

away from factories and muddy paths.

Though he is mostly sailing now

sometimes I can hear his footsteps above my parents bedroom.