Granddad's Lucky Marble - DHR
Granddad carried
one green marble
in his pocket.
He said
it never liked
staying there
after dark.
Every night,
it rolled beneath
someone's bed
and borrowed
a little tomorrow.
Never birthdays.
Never Christmas.
Only the little tomorrows—
the afternoon
you'd finally
learn to whistle.
The morning
you'd notice
the ladybug
on your shoelace.
The day
you'd wave
to the lonely postman.
By sunrise,
it had returned
to Granddad's pocket,
where those little tomorrows
curled together
like coloured smoke.
Sometimes,
he'd hold it
to the light
and smile
at something
I couldn't see.
He said
that's why
old people
sometimes smiled
at empty swings,
at worn-out shoes,
at the evening sky.
They weren't remembering
yesterdays.
They were living
the little tomorrows.
The marble
had returned.
Last Tuesday,
I noticed
a ladybug
on my shoelace.
I smiled
before I remembered
why.
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