Archive for July 7, 2013

Grandfather

I remember I could hear you read,
downstairs, turning the pages
in the silent house, it came through
the cracks of the floorboards in my bedroom
that let in the light from your lamp.
The sound of paper rubbing,
or of a finger moving
from difficult word to word,
the crisp noise
when you would shake the newspaper
as to order what was most important:
the Kennedy murder, the building
of the Berlin wall or the weather,
and it is how I remember you.
The evidence that you were there
was in the calm sound of your reading,
the whispering voice that spoke
of a world we both did not understand.

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