The only child of his middle daughter
was the toe-headed boy so serious
that his smile meant something
besides the affliction of happiness. To cheer him
he said, “you’ve got your ears on backwards,” and
the boy giantly said, “no, you do, you do.”

So it was. And they each pickaxed a rock of licorice
from a black brick of licorice, and sucked
on the hard stuff as if there was no more to be had.

And the only child of his third daughter
was running from room to room, bouncing on the first
cushion in sight, bounding out of grasp and motioning
for somebody to join him.

And the only child of his first daughter
was running away again into the pasture beyond
the barn. He stood beneath the clouds and
decided rain, so he wouldn’t go far in case he
must return in a downpour

And the grandfather wondered, amazed,
if this might be the last
day before winter, and if there would be one
more apple pie to be had, and if these children
could ever know him as he had learned to know
his long dead grandfather.

The licorice slivered,
the flavor remained.

Post a Comment | Trackback URI