::poetic license

(After being gently chided by my friend Heidi this evening about how rarely I update this little corner of the blogosphere, I have acquired a renewed zest for sharing my musings.)

My maternal grandfather was the kindest, most gentle man I have ever encountered.

His joy, compassion and love for people consistently moved me.
He died in 2004, and since then I have desperately desired to write a poem for him.
After many thwarted efforts, I decided that the magnitude of his influence on my life was simply too vast to be squeezed into assortments of letters.

So when this seed of an idea floated into my cerebral cortex, it was completely unexpected.
Although it is merely a snapshot of sorts, I believe it closely resembles the ineffable sentiments I hoped to convey.
After workshopping its drafts with my wonderful honest reader, Christopher (thank you!), I have decided to share what it has blossomed into:

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Sustenance

Lunch with my grandparents
always included
conversations seasoned
with hearty laughter,
anecdotes starring relatives,
and bizarre concoctions
between bread slices;
peanut butter and pickle,
tuna salad and butter,
tomatoes with cottage cheese.
My grandfather's side dish,
however,
was the oft-touted
pièce de résistance.
After peeling the flaky,
flimsy skin from an onion,
he would bite into its natural globe
like a sweet autumn apple.
Flabbergasted, my brothers
and I exchanged glances,
half-laughing, half-horrified,
as Grandpa simply smiled,
amused by our naivete,
and declared,
"Tastes good, kids."

Much later I would learn
the adage,
You are what you eat,
and revise it immediately,
my Grandfather's face sunning
my memories,
and decide that in fact
You are what it takes
to eat what you eat,
because he
was always exceptional
and always brave.


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I warmly invite comments and reactions.

Speak to me.