| Grandfather sat on park benches perched on his cane like a crow on the twisting branch of a willow. weathered skin sagged below his eyes revealing the red muscle that held so many years of sight into his head all those memories entombed through those wet lenses. liver spots, like coffee stains on a diner's smooth white tablecloth, sprouted out saplings among the rest of his tan leather hide. Hair like a gust of wind wound tightly back around his balding head the comb-marks like irrigation fields painted to match a depressed sky. Old funeral shoes lay flat, clapping the sidewalk softly to "My Girl." Beige pants like miniature tree trunks stretching to his tucked in shirt his belt mummified him, sealed with a buckle like a Pilgrims hat. An itch tickles his skin where he was injured in World War II and the darkened puncture wound seeps history through the scar. His mustache swept away his lips, as his brow blew folded skin upon his forehead as he gets excited, by simple things always. Swaying neck flaps expand and contract as he breathes. Muscles tighten as he staggers to his feet at his peak he looks to the clouds, oh how they have changed. As he holds himself up, hand infused with the mahogany cane, the seasons swirl about him and gather in his soul the closest source of history overflows through his veins like surges of hot water rush to the end of a water pipe. He inhales present and exhales the past. Grandfather gets all his information from a newspaper he is still amazed by electricity. I have never seen Grandfather frown, only smiles push up those wrinkled cheeks As the colors, smells, sights, sounds, textures, and breath of the ages radiate from Grandfather, and his glow projects the passing of time Grandfather is a treasure left unrecognized to modern times |
By: Mark D. Anderson
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