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Grandpa and his sister, Aunt Jay,
born on the same day —
not twins, yet
they departed the earth’s way
within days
of each other.

Today is Grandpa’s birthday —
how many years I don’t know.
He left his body in his seventies
and it’s been so and so
many years ago.

Aunt Jay, I remember her farm,
her kids I knew later in their lives —
the stories they would give,
precious about my mom and her twin,
sitting pretty, as a play they would spin.

Mom tells me today, on a call,
“It’s my daddy’s birthday,” and all.
The years melt away trespasses and tears,
kin imperfect, but loved above all.

I remember Aunt Jay, in passing,
but Grandpa is Grandpa — mine.
He loved my daughter when she was nine.
One time she sat upon his lap, his heart
melted, mine too — a sign
also of his love for me.

Grandpa carried tobacco in his cheeks,
helped in chores for the people on his street.
I’d see him once, twice a year —
memories are dear.

He’d be up on a ladder painting his house,
on the porch chatting it up with mama’s spouse
or watching a small t.v. and handing us kids
a silver dollar — no one was watching,
as if he was Santa. Well...he acted the part.

5/8/2020

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