:: 11.25.06 ::

Grandpa

He's so old: his body, his mind, his laugh. But he's... not old. He chokes when he laughs, but he laughs like a boy. He loves little tin wind-up trains. He whistles like he doesn't have a care in the world- like he's walking in tall grass on a hot summer day, barefoot, hungry, and wandering.

Today, he gave me twenty dollars. Just ten at first, "just because." Then another ten I had "left behind" the last time I visited. He said, "I have all this money, but no time to spend it and nothing to spend it on? Could you please spend it for me?" He always says silly things like that.

He says I'm pretty. And such a sweet heart. (If he only knew.) That's what he told Daddy, over and over again. I don't know how I make him so happy.

I don't know a lot about him. I want to know what he was like as a boy. What did he like to do? What decisions did he make? How did he change? I wonder if he has any regrets. When did he fall in love with his wife? Why has he stayed with her so very long? How did they know it was love?

I want to know what his life is like. What it was like. What it will be like.

I wish he would write his own poetry. If he does, I would like to read it. Someday. When I can understand the power I imagine would be behind his words.

He's getting thin. His hair is white. He seems so full of life. But... you can see when he walks, the world is on his shoulders, and all the years of work, of hardship, of trivial troubles are hammering on his shoulder blades and making him droop. And when he coughs you can hear dust and sickness stirring in his bones. You can feel the vibrations- the rippling effect of the Original Sin. And then you know: this man is old.