Everything passes. It has to. That's the beauty and tragedy of it.
Time has cruelly weathered that unmoving face,
Deepening the creases on the fabric of his brow.
Yet those deep, dark eyes speak forth a tale
Of undaunted days of old, bygone ages;
When simplicity and strength blended together,
Untouched by the gory afflictions of today.
And the embers of life remain unextinguished
As I look onto that face adorning that far wall.
I remember those ancient, unencumbered days,
When the day would eventually be cloaked by dusk.
He would lovingly settle me down before the clock;
To teach me the enigmatic motion of their hands,
Dragging with them, seconds, minutes, hours,
And magical moments and wispy memories along…
And today, that disc ticking away on the wall,
Is but a sweet reminder of a person long gone.
That wooden walking stick, his third leg,
Had been a silent supporter, a constant companion.
But today, in this fast-paced, uncaring world,
Has been callously tossed away, lost into nothingness.
I remember his straight-backed, cross-legged posture,
As he sat, playing solitaire on the bare floor;
And the authority that rang in his voice,
Still echoes in my heart at unguarded moments.
I also remember that blissful, contented expression,
That adorned his masterful face, even in death.
As if he had that ever coveted, impossible power
To command over the reins of death’s chariot.
So, no matter how many cob-webs settle unfeelingly,
Upon and around the canvas of his portrait;
The picture of my grandfather lies forever fresh,
In the depths of my heart, like a buried treasure…