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