St. Patrick’s Day is always a great reminder that I am undeservedly lucky. It is also the Birthday of my Grandpa Turner. My grandfathers were amazing men; they both were fiercely strong, hard working men. I would like to say that I am a product of them both, but the truth is I’m not even a respectable shadow of what they were. My grandfather could be counted on to tell it like it like he saw it, the only exception was he chose to show his love, rather than vocalize it. I started this poem shortly after he passed away, but couldn't finish it until recently. So, this is for you grandpa. Thanks for everything.
Grandpa
In cool blue-black mornings
I still hear him
do-tee-do-do-dum.
Greeting the morn “Down in the Valley”.
The gold brown smell of toast and coffee,
Tuck me in security
Warmed by a cedar wood fire
And a wool Indian blanket;
Iron clad in scratchy warmth.
Cups in hand, we sit watching the window,
He stokes the fire
With ancient work worn hands
A pat on the knee
A do-tee-do-dum verse,
A “Wild Irish Rose”
Song of love….
Words not needed.
The dawn comes slowly,
Thief of warmth.
The fire wanes,
blanket folded,
The song, chased
Out of the valley
In deference to the light of day
He left in the morn.
Blue-black, cold
Where warmth should have been.
I never said “goodbye”,
Words not needed.
He left me,
Iron clad in scratchy warmth,
Love never leaves…
