Through high rows of corn, I followed
my grandfather.
He steadily carried a steel green
tacklebox.
His shoulders were square, his stride
unbothered
By the weight of the gear. I followed
his steady walk.
We wound down away from the house, down
a hill,
up another, twisting along. It took
time to reach the pond,
a perfect pond, wide and blue, quiet
and still.
We sat and unpacked a lunch and let out the rods,
And waited. The afternoon burned on as
we sat on the bank.
He sat ready and baited my hook and
skewered the lure.
We talked a little but mostly waited as
the sun slowly sank
as we waited for the first catch of the
summer.
* * * *
Chair and a paper, July had come in
full heat.
Dusk had come, but there was nothing to
relieve the humidity;
Julio Franco struck out in the ninth to
empty seats
at a stadium that we could imagine but
couldn't see,
through a one speaker AM radio that sat
alongside him.
You could make out the groans through
the static.
He shook his head, checked the clock,
hit the television.
The lottery required
precise arithmetic
Recorded through a calculator ribbon of
double digits
Laid out in rows of six going back for
years on end.
A matching pair, maybe two under closer
notice -
His glasses came off, no pattern
discerned.
* * * *
Standing to greet me as grandma worked
on dinner.
He shook my hand firmly as we went to
relax.
I introduced him to my girlfriend and
he taught her euchre;
It was hard to orchestrate
the queens and jacks
And he would smirk, "Don't bury
your partner's bower!"
A few more hands and supper was ready.
Ham and au gratins, green beans and
butter,
He asked me about where my life was
heading.
He talked about growing up on the farm,
The depression, surviving on what was
raised and grown,
Running assignments for generals,
escaping harm,
Avoiding credit, earn what you own.
* * * *
Small details, small snapshots, mental
pictures
Of a life lived up to all of his own
words;
A series of actions that when summed
end up greater
Than the moments from which they were
gathered,
There are more memories (your memories)
worth greater mention,
That root themselves to the sublime.
There are shadows of thoughts left
unopened,
To be revealed like gifts over time.
Take today to remember this man,
A father, a husband, a brother, a
friend.
Let each memory return where it began,
And through that, let your burden lighten.
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