(no subject)
Today I arrived home to the grave of my grandfather.
I sat in the dark and put my hand on the earth.
It was dry from the heat and it crumbled from my hand
when I lifted it to feel it between my fingers.
I touched the ground and cried,
Grandpa, you are not there.
I had meant to tell you stories of my travels.
I had meant to memorize your stories of the past.
The family was there for the procession,
the burial of the body that used to house you.
These rites are for the living, to say goodbye.
I was off chasing shadows through the world
and I missed them.
These flowers are foreign to me, this plot empty.
You are not there.
I walked up the long drive, away from the cemetery
In the dark, with a flashlight, though I knew the way.
I had cried when I heard,
and I cried when I touched the earth that holds your body
Reactionary tears, that felt like lies.
But up the long driveway, I stopped at your house.
The light was on in the bedroom.
Grandma. 56 years and now alone.
I cried from my soul then. From my deep place where I keep you.
The shed no longer houses your toys.
It is haunted by ghosts of tractors and trucks
whose beds are held together by rust and grassroots.
We used to ride upon them together, you and I and my cousins.
You are here. In this shed and in this house
and in this long driveway that leads from your house to mine.
Today I arrived home to find my grandfather.
I had misplaced him and a stranger took his place.
A weak and shuffling man filled with tubes and transplants.
But here I found you.
My grandpa. Here in your place I found you.
I found us.
I sat in the dark and put my hand on the earth.
It was dry from the heat and it crumbled from my hand
when I lifted it to feel it between my fingers.
I touched the ground and cried,
Grandpa, you are not there.
I had meant to tell you stories of my travels.
I had meant to memorize your stories of the past.
The family was there for the procession,
the burial of the body that used to house you.
These rites are for the living, to say goodbye.
I was off chasing shadows through the world
and I missed them.
These flowers are foreign to me, this plot empty.
You are not there.
I walked up the long drive, away from the cemetery
In the dark, with a flashlight, though I knew the way.
I had cried when I heard,
and I cried when I touched the earth that holds your body
Reactionary tears, that felt like lies.
But up the long driveway, I stopped at your house.
The light was on in the bedroom.
Grandma. 56 years and now alone.
I cried from my soul then. From my deep place where I keep you.
The shed no longer houses your toys.
It is haunted by ghosts of tractors and trucks
whose beds are held together by rust and grassroots.
We used to ride upon them together, you and I and my cousins.
You are here. In this shed and in this house
and in this long driveway that leads from your house to mine.
Today I arrived home to find my grandfather.
I had misplaced him and a stranger took his place.
A weak and shuffling man filled with tubes and transplants.
But here I found you.
My grandpa. Here in your place I found you.
I found us.