Grandfather who I hold in my mind like the ocean
cradles the coast. Grandfather who leaves the seminary
and loves my grandmother, who speaks Quebecois,
who can’t pronounce north, who sails, whose rusted
blue boat I can spot every time we walk past the harbor,
who shows me how to sand wood into silk, who beats
me in checkers, who drives a green Cadillac, who laughs
when I take off his toupee, who orders his steak buttered,
extra rare, says: just walk the cow through a warm kitchen.
Grandfather who sits me on the sink while he shaves, who
does not punish curiosity, who is forever on his way back
for dinner, who is sunburnt on a ladder, who teaches me
the meaning of , whose footsteps
don’t catch in my throat, who steals my ice cream so I’ll
chase him, who I’m still chasing, whose hands have never
asked too much of me, who carries me from my broken
bike, who isn’t even angry, who falls asleep on the couch,
who doesn’t wake up, whose absence is a well where home
echoes, where I’ve knelt and wept, hoping to grow into
an understanding of permanence. Grandfather, to mourn
and to remember share the same root, and I’ve become
a disciple to both. Grandfather, I don’t believe in prayer
anymore, yet I’m still trying to talk to you. Grandfather,
I wouldn’t even recognize your voice if you spoke back.
–
Mollie O’Leary is a poet from Massachusetts. She holds a B.A. in English and philosophy from Kenyon College and an M.F.A. in poetry from the University of Washington, Seattle. Her work has appeared in Frontier Poetry, Poetry Online, DIALOGIST, and elsewhere. She reads for GASHER journal.