Are you okay, I say.
Your shirt is soft, but too big.
It's the day after my favorite person's funeral,
And I am floating above me watching myself kiss the urn that my uncle carved from a tree in the backyard.
The house that she grew up in, and
That you grew up in.

Grandpas die every day.
Dads don't have to die, I tell him.

I chase him down the hall.
The hotel isn't all that welcoming and
He is skinny.
Fumbling, hiding the brown bag in his jacket,
"I am okay."
And I don't believe him.