She saw the bones on his knuckles
were like mountains
As he lie in the still, off-white
room with the gold crucifix on the wall
The skin translucent and thin as
the lunaria in the blue vase on the kitchen windowsill
He collected them with his granddaughter
one languid summer day
When she still wore pigtails and bib
overalls
Ankle deep in crab grass, with
the cicadas buzzing in the trees
His steps were patient and
forgiving,
He told her she was worth more to
him than all of the silver dollars in his sock drawer.
His feet now rest under the blue Granny-squared
afghan
That her mother worriedly
straightens with pallid face
She preferred not to make this memory strong,
Remembering that time they left
the diner
Ducking into the rain
He opened his coat to shield her
from the damp,
How tall and strong you are,
She remembered thinking all those
years ago
And so kind
She thought now as she said her
last goodbye.
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