Knowing
Posted: 02 Apr 2016, 17:44
There is a picture of a man
standing in plaid and glasses, thin and smiling.
The grandfather I never knew.
A chemist who enjoyed the simple combination
of peanut butter and toast.
He sang in a barbershop quartet
and died before I could remember him.
I can see him in so much mandolin music
played softly, quietly, and carefully
by my father, head bent in prayer,
plucking memories from the strings.
I can see him at my grandmother’s house.
His walking stick still leans against the wall near the door,
its smooth wooden handle worn by use, used no more.
I can see him in these small moments,
but I will never know my grandfather.
I could eat toast for every meal,
but I still wouldn’t know
the particular way he spread peanut butter on bread
or whether he smelled like the chemicals he worked with.
I will never know how his voice sounded when he spoke,
though I imagine it was gentle and kind.
I will never know what we would have spoken about,
given the chance.
But when his story is told,
I can almost hear the hollow thud of his walking stick
on rainy Portland pavement,
or soft mandolin melodies on a Sunday afternoon,
or the satisfied crunch of toasted bread.
Almost, almost, almost.
I decide almost is enough.
standing in plaid and glasses, thin and smiling.
The grandfather I never knew.
A chemist who enjoyed the simple combination
of peanut butter and toast.
He sang in a barbershop quartet
and died before I could remember him.
I can see him in so much mandolin music
played softly, quietly, and carefully
by my father, head bent in prayer,
plucking memories from the strings.
I can see him at my grandmother’s house.
His walking stick still leans against the wall near the door,
its smooth wooden handle worn by use, used no more.
I can see him in these small moments,
but I will never know my grandfather.
I could eat toast for every meal,
but I still wouldn’t know
the particular way he spread peanut butter on bread
or whether he smelled like the chemicals he worked with.
I will never know how his voice sounded when he spoke,
though I imagine it was gentle and kind.
I will never know what we would have spoken about,
given the chance.
But when his story is told,
I can almost hear the hollow thud of his walking stick
on rainy Portland pavement,
or soft mandolin melodies on a Sunday afternoon,
or the satisfied crunch of toasted bread.
Almost, almost, almost.
I decide almost is enough.