Tuesday, October 16, 2007


When I think of Grandpa, I think of

Sunday dinners at the farmhouse--
   his boots under the desk,
   his soft voice saying the Lord's prayer

   as we bowed our heads around the yellow table,
   him eating the onions off my roast,
   and later letting us up on the recliner with him,

   catching our fingers and tickling our feet.

   humid mornings picking sweet corn along the dirt road,
   and he let me drive his truck without my permit

   even though I turned it off while it was in drive.
   Grandpa and his corn knife getting ahead

   while we scrambled to pull off the silk.

A bunch of blonde kids on a picnic table,
   jumping and waving and hollering as he drove past,
   competing to be chosen to squeeze in the tractor cab
   with the smell and the dust and the flies
   and Grandpa.

Bear hugs
   and husker du
   and that smirk
   and the way he held Grandma's arm when they got out of the carriage at their 50th anniversary.

It's hard to think that today he's at the hospital so the doctors can figure out where the cancer in his brain came from.

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