Gypsy

 
He’s half from Buda, other half from Pest,
My great-grandad, a carpenter of chairs.
The craftier in his blood would use the best,
The gypsy in his soul sang for his fares.

When hard times hit, his mother passed away,
He joined the Army, tending to the sick.
He saved to paint his cart, the dead to raise,
To trail the troops as they marched off to war.

That first year he was gone, he fell in love,
While bandaging a soldier’s bloody head.
Her name was Hanna, going camp to camp;
She’d found her brother on the List of Dead.

He soon would learn she never gave up hope
When he invited her to join with him.
She helped him pull the cart with hemp of rope
When rain would cause the horse to sink in mud.

Brutality in battle brought them close,
As Hanna spoke of suppers Mama made.
And he’d recall, enrapt, what he loved most
Each time a break in fighting bless’ed came.

What rations Hanna found along the way,
She’d try, over a fire, a cabbage stew.
Great-grandpa was so grateful, all he’d say
“If we both make it back, I’ll marry you.”

An amnesty declared, meant they were free.
Went first to Paris where he met her mom,
Who said yes when he asked for Hanna’s hand,
Then back to Budapest, he and his bride.

Now what he did, what does it mean to me?
He lived to raise the family they made.
His skills were passed on as a legacy;
I tinker, but it’s not my stock and trade.