Southern Gentleman
Words are swirling.
I want to write them down,
but even in my mind, tears blur the ink.
I think you'd understand.
You, the English professor,
the storyteller,
the Southern Gentleman at heart.
You, the naval officer prone to seasickness
who could talk to anyone,
out loud or on paper, without bias or ill-will.
I miss hearing you whistle as you walk
and the smell of your shaving soap.
I miss your infectious knee-slapping laughs
and your unmitigated love for jam.
I miss your stories, all of them,
about growing up in the South,
about your wise, kind-hearted mother,
and your dog, Scrappy.
I miss your rows and rows of books
and their dust and must and might,
and your love for Blake and Keats
and Alice Munro.
I miss knowing you're around, somewhere,
making the world better just by being there.
I miss the purity, the goodness
of your enormous heart.
I don't think I can describe it quite right,
but I'll try.
With your books on my shelf
and your words on my heart,
I'll try to convey
what an honour and blessing it has been
to call you Grandpa.
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