The sand sifted between my toes like the last few minutes of an hour glass, slowly trickling down, leaving only a slight residue. The residue felt like sand paper, incredibly itchy, although addictive, as I ran my foot deeper into the sand to feel the warm crystals again. Was I dreaming? Did I just see my Grandfather? There was a cold chill that raced up my torso at lightening speed, paralyzing me into a Sodom like state. I’ve never met my Grandfather, but I have seen tons of pictures of his handsome self since I was a child. I heard all the stories about his thick Irish brogue and his belly laugh that could light up a room, not to mention his story telling way. My father used to brag about how he could sell ice cubes to an Eskimo, or con you out of your last quarter and make you feel guilty about your lack of funds. However, there were also the stories of his extreme generosity and making sure all the children in his “walk-up” were fed during the Depression years when he himself had little to spare. All the old women loved him and the old men respected him as they politely chirped out “Tis Himself” whenever he approached them sitting on the stoop.
------- Author's Notes -------
for my friend D.
Comments on this poem/writing:
|MC (184.108.40.206) -- Thursday, January 4 2007, 09:51 pm|
Ireland is the homeland of my grandparents, and I'm so hoping to go there someday. Nice writing, keep it up.
|JIM (220.127.116.11) -- Sunday, January 7 2007, 08:45 pm|
appreciate the feedback MC
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