I felt sorry for the frustration of oblivion, for every time I didn't come to visit, and for the forkfuls of egg waffles. The first time I thought I saw my grandfather dead was two nights after I buried him, when I saw a black mass at the foot of my bed and he was at the forefront of my mind. I closed my eyes and hoped that it wasn't him, that he was at peace, finally; I was hoping he was out of those waffles. When I opened my eyes again, I saw the reflection of the moon in the mirrored doors of my closet, and nothing more. Other times I saw him in line at the grocery store, or sitting in a booth over a plate of ribs. My heart sinks and my eyes widen, and then they go cross-eyed when I try to focus my unfocused eyes on the sight that I know is deceiving me. My grandfather's ghost clears in the vision of someone else's lively, material grandfather, and I feel embarrassed for ever hoping he could be mine..