My grandfather held
a magnifying glass
over an ashtray
of torn paper
in the sun
to convince me
he knew how
to make magic.

“It’s a miracle!”
I’d say, wide-eyed,
at the growing flame.

“Miracle” was a word
I never really understood.

Sometimes, when I visit now,
same wooden chairs, near
an open window, I beg him
to use his magic, make
me understand.

Sunlight reflects
on the urn
that holds
my brother’s

ashes. I watch,
wide-eyed, waiting

for grandfather to use
that burning
inside me,

and make something
of them again.