Yearning
Grandpa always sat in my dad’s old
green chair by the big picture window
that opened onto our tiny street. He’d
pound and pound on his leg, just above
his knee. It’s the only thing that helps,
he’d tell me. The doctor said he needed
a knee replacement. I don’t want to have
this pain for the rest of my life, he’d say.
Mother made fun of him. He’s eighty. How
much time does he think he has left? His
wish for a new knee made sense to me. I
was fifteen, full of hope. He could get better.
Now, at seventy-five, I know that something
is always out of reach. Whether it be a pain-
free walk or peace on earth. I was seventy when
I realized that I’d never read all the books I’d
gathered over my lifetime, that my library was
a tomb of yearning and aspiration. Something
about that was both horribly sad and strangely
comforting. Today, my doctor blushed brightly
after he told me that the RSV vaccine he
wanted me to get was for really old people. He
was so embarrassed. He apologized profusely,
and that’s when I knew he loved me.
Charlie Brice won the 2020 Field Guide Poetry Magazine Poetry Contest and placed third in the 2021 Allen Ginsberg Poetry Prize. His ninth full-length poetry collection is Tragedy in the Arugula Aisle (Arroyo Seco Press, 2025). His poetry has been nominated for the Best of Net Anthology and the Pushcart Prize and has appeared in Atlanta Review, The Honest Ulsterman, Ibbetson Street, Chiron Review, The MacGuffin, and elsewhere.
