When they talk about you,
they say that you could build anything,
and indeed there was evidence of this
all around the inside and the outside
of the house where you and Mom-Mom lived.
I remember the metal railing you machined yourself
to enclose the back porch and make it safe,
the beautiful corner cabinet you built
to hold Mom-Mom’s fine china.
There is a memory
of you trying to teach me
how to tie my shoe.
Make a triangle with the laces you said,
then bring one through...
I remember trying and trying
and one day getting it,
but by then you were no longer there
to see me, or my shoes,
or this world ever again.
Here is the NaPoWriMo prompt for today. We were encouraged to write an elegy and to center it around an unusual fact about the person, in order to paradoxically “breathe life” into the poem. My last living grandparent, Mom Mom, passed away in January and I wrote some about her then. My first thought about today’s post was to write some more about Mom Mom, but then I remembered that I haven’t written much about her husband, my Pop Pop, who died when I was only four years old…so…there you go.