When I was five, my grandfather took me to the tomb
                of King Suro, lifted me over the stone fences

                and watched me slide down the mound over 
  and over again. Did he do this because he was

                an old man, because he didn’t know where young 
                                 parents take their children, like the aquarium

                or the water park or the toy store? Or did he 
   because he was once a child who never went

                to any of those? Was it because I was a child, 
    who he assumed would enjoy sliding

                endlessly? And wasn’t he right? About how children
                                conceive of time differently or that their imaginations

                work differently, and that every slide was, in fact,
                                different? Or did he do this because he was

                an old man, who thought the only destination left
                for him was the grave? Or did he not care about death