February 26th, 1929 - January 23, 2019
II.
Careful, grandfather:
on this last visit, anything you say
I may attempt to turn into poetry.
How much of what we say gets canonized in verse
depends not on our own significance
but on the skill of the poet.
I am not so good with words
to make mundane days
become magic.
But I watch your gaze
trace blank page space
in between us.
You only asked one thing of me before:
that I tell you what you could pray for.
Now, you leave me, after my third of your ninety years,
with one inheritance.
Now, eyes fogged over but no less locked on mine,
you make what will be your last request of me,
for the moment
and for the remainder of my own stay:
“Would you pray?”
And so the Great Poet rests his pen on the paper
in between us.
Here we share the one bond, the one chain, the one trust
that can free us.
I.
At the speed of light
no time passes.
When I was little
(you prayed for me)
“soon”
was measured in seconds.
When I grew
“soon”
became months.
Soon
“soon”
will mean years.
When you meet him, face
to face,
“soon”
will have been a lifetime.
When you shift a gentle turn
into light
no time passes.
I will see you again
soon.
III.
What great illusion you have left:
your body frail, in a futile attempt
to hide the herculean soul
buried in your chest
IV.
You pressed the issue of consistency,
set the standard: be faithful, stay.
“Walk humbly with your God” as if to say.
You quoted verses endlessly,
were tested, tried, steady-handed, you testified.
“Walk humbly with your God” you implied.
I left you today, soon to leave.
I drove back into dusk;
you forward into dawn.
I will walk humbly with your God
when you are gone.
battering down the gates of heaven
towing your son,
and his sons,
and their sons
close behind
(a few brief decades).
This struggle beneath all struggle,
the war for the foundation of a person:
here it is, well-fought.
Here you are,
and here am I,
going where you went,
following where you follow,
meaning what you meant.
V.
For as long as I can remember,
I will not forget you
because you remembered me.
The day you pass away,
God will suddenly have too much free time.
For as long as I can remember
you have spent hours every day in prayer.
My mom has always credited my faith
to your prayers.
I don’t even know what I owe you.
No wonder death for you
is a small change of pace,
a wrinkle in time,
a wink in place.
I do not know exactly what he told you already.
But I picture something like
“Let’s continue the conversation over dinner.
My place.”