At the End, We Find Beginnings
Cold creeps under the door
to settle on the rug beside
my chair like an old dog too tired
to chase rabbits even in his dreams.
Next to a blazing fire, a frail figure
slumps in an old chair, pale
and shaking, his frame draped
with old blankets and knitted afghans
in earth colors as faded as time.
The fire hides behind ash-laden
logs, more chill than heat,
more smoke than flame, mostly
comfort to my bitter companion.
The room's heat oppressive;
in a stiff-backed chair close
to the aged form, a sweating young
man writes the elder's whispered
words, never asking for clarification.
Wrapped in homemade quilts,
on my shoulders a shawl she crafted,
I attempt sleep to find memories
easier than I will ever find warmth.
From time to time, the youth
stokes the fire and refreshes
his senior's tea before he settles
to the task at hand – capturing
pieces of his grandfather's life.
How we meet, separated,
the bright days of childhood,
the dark days of parenting,
triumphs mixed with defeat.
Ninety-six years to record,
each moment increases
the chance some left behind.
None remembered well enough,
fragments detained in aged ice.
from February, 2002
Gary is the editor of Writer's Hood. You can find more of his work on his homepage, too.