They tell me I called you “Opa”–
German for the father of my father–
but I don’t remember it:
you were always Grandpa,
in your soft leather recliner,
the big one I would nap in
when you went outside to mow the lawn.
You mowed the lawn with religious devotion,
clipped the green blades short
like the military-style buzz
they tell me you used to wear
before you lost your hair.
You were old when I was born
hairless, a prediction of myself,
perhaps,
and quiet: silent and terrifying
always terrifying,
though I never heard displeasure
in your rumbled voice.
You spoke in questions,
as if always a step behind the world.
Maybe your head was still en route
soaring somewhere above the clouds
with the zeppelin you flew in 1945.
That was you: aviator, postman, soldier,
but never from your lips–
I learned of you from your son.
I know you by the collection of your wounds:
the kidney lost in Korea,
the lung half-gone,
the four bypass surgeries:
detours for the causeways of your heart.

• Newest
• ‹ previous
• 326 of 384
• next ›
• Oldest