poem.

poem for pa.

i trolled the internet yesterday

hoping to find words that rang true

or offered some glimpse inside the relationship

of grandfather to grandchild.

i did this

because i could not find my own thoughts

could not find my own way

through the idea

of what it was that you meant to me.

but in truth, there is nothing that's been said

before that can tell this story

the way that it needs to be told.

and in all honesty, i don't know if i possess

the ability to do you justice.

but.

you, pa, the master of potatoes.

how is it that you knew the best way to

prepare them in every conceivable form?

scalloped, fried, mashed

with heavy doses of real cream

even as children we knew that was the

most important ingredient.

you, stubbornly clutching to the idea that

the yankees held your loyalty.

constantly teasing and upbraiding the rest of us

in red sox nation, wearing the NY hat with pride,

perfecting your taunts.

(and yet, old man, when we cleaned out your drawers,

we found commemorative editions of sports magazines,

celebrating boston's historic 2004 world series win.

hidden away, like a treasure for us to discover.)

you, working in cahoots with your grandchildren

since the day we were born.

dressed as santa claus at christmas,

offering bribes for rubbing your feet,

slipping us cash whenever you could.

an art form emerged, whereupon you used your

grandchildren against your daughters, and

in the end we were spoiled rotten because of it.

spoiled above our means. spoiled senseless.

you, telling us stories,

like how long your real name was

Edward William Baxter Balmer Sylvanius

Allowicious Wallace

or how you were a colonel

instead of a sergeant

when really, a sergeant was enough to impress.

you, filled with emotion,

brimmed over the top,

handing down the wallace gene

that insures your grandchildren

will tear up during macy's thanksgiving day parade,

especially for santa and the rockettes.

you, heartbroken for years, missing her everyday,

while we rallied around you and tried

to be enough for you to be happy.

you, doting upon us and giving us nothing but love.

nothing but love and aggravation. nothing but love and

irascible behavior. nothing but love and slammed-door arguments,

cigar in your mouth, driving off in your car

to make your point.

you, forgiven immediately, and reciprocating. instilling in

your grandchildren the understanding

that no matter what, family harbors only goodwill towards

each other. in the end, we learned, we are the shelter,

the umbrella,

the cabana in the sudden summer rainstorm.

you, pa, you.

from me, from your grandchildren,

there is gratitude. what sweet good fortune

we had to have you around,

to be cradled by you,

to feel our cheeks against yours

in years of embraces,

the scruff of your face a friendly hurt.

wherever you may be

your spirit soaring overhead

Dewar's scotch in one hand

ethel's hand in the other

inevitable cigar in your mouth

i hope you are on your treasure island

full of the knowledge

that you left us with so much love,

filled, satiated, satisfied

by your endless devotion.