Grandpa

 

The wind whips up a cloud of dust

Just as it did in the days of the Great Depression

You saw those days as a young boy,

As you learned what the earth could mean to you

 

Yes, you loved the mountains and her trails

The crunch of the dry earth, and the rocks beneath your feet

 

I imagine you will visit the Rockies again someday–

Carried there by some westerly wind

 

On the day of your memorial, my father chose to wear his nicest pair of black leather shoes

He plucked them from the back of his closet, where they reside in darkness most days

 

And against the black asphalt, outside the church,

As the sun cut through the cold,

I noticed they were covered in dust

 

I like to think he didn’t wipe them off because he didn’t want to forget you