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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.

I like this poem, maybe because I can relate. I would have loved to have known my paternal grandfather. I've been told that he was quite a character who lived a very interesting life. For many people who have not known a mother or father this poem might hit even closer to home. It begs so many questions and elicits so many feelings. Sometimes I wonder what my distant ancestors were like. I think this is a universal curiosity which explains why so many people perform extensive searches of their genealogy, and of course one can look at this question from the opposite direction and wonder what our great, great, great grandCHILDREN will be like.

Your poem is nicely written and evocative. Thank you for sharing it with us.