No longer just living, but recording.
I have lived and absorbed without comment.
The memories stored and lost in cells that
live and work
beneath the roots of my hairs.
Careful when moments were too big to comprehend
or too simple to store;
I have lost opportunities and sentences by sleeping.
The grandfather who died before I could know him,
before I could remember him,
would notice things passed over:
spot cows in fields, or eagles on fence posts,
the subtleties of leaves changing color–
before anyone would say that it was autumn.
And passing it down and birthrights to the youngest grandchild,
he saved it for the child yet to be born,
then born.
it was me.
Favored to play with his hat un-reprimanded
favored to sit on this knee undisturbed
pointing out objects like matchboxes,
feathers, the difference between green leaves
and yellow.
26 years for the birthright to settle
like a sweater that, already washed and dried by accident,
fits like a charm…a second layer of skin.
