my grandfather
died of a cold rain
in the early spring of 1965, he carried
produces he grew and saved for months
and walked thirty miles of mountain roads to the train station
he was going to the city to visit his only daughter
it rained halfway
he did not have an umbrella
he did not turn back 

later
his daughter accompanied him back home because he got sick from the rain
the sky cleared up each day, but the lights in his eyes
dimmed away day by day
I had never seen my grandfather
neither did my mother
he left no photo of him at all

some sunny afternoon
my father put down his paintbrush
looking at the mountains in the distance, (as if) talking
to himself -
your grandpa was a very quiet person
on a sunny day like this, he would sit in the fields
and take a sunbath

one night
I was sitting in my car and the world
was disappearing in the pouring rain
where I saw my grandfather
carry his baggage and
walk in the rain