Mahogany Stool of Memories

As I'm looking out to the fresh
signal of a Spring morning
I remember my younger years when
I'd gladly sit on Oupa's lap
I'd boast his round-rimmed spectacles
with my crescent smile
And he'd return it knowing it was just what I'd needed

Sitting on Oupa's lap I'd hear
soft murmuring from his lips
Nagging my ears to listen
Though I heard, I didn't really listen
"I can't hear you Oupa"
Whenever I said those words,
I'd feel his wrinkled face browse me
with worry
Reading my fazed out
expression looking over the fresh
signal of a Spring morning
"Your heart's not here, that's why, my dear child"

I loved the way he could tell
my unhappiness,
Though I despised it too...
He'd pest me with his eyes
And I'd refuse to look at him because I knew
I'd cry
I'd cry when his wisdom wouldn't be
with me anymore

And now, sitting on his mahogany stool,
Remembering my grandpa,
I cry as I knew
I would...


(Inscribed to the man who I'd spend mornings milking cows with at the tender age of 7, may his soul Rest In Peace.)