To Bob

Despite the changes that have happened at your home,

with your family during the last six years,

and despite the blur and illusions of my tear glazed eyes,

I see you clearly.

I see you kneeling down to my height,

allowing me to experience one of your personal duties,

placing a tool to save lives in my hands while you placed me in yours.

I see you lifting a decrepit bench from the front porch

splintering and unsteady,

moving it to the concrete,

prying open the green finish,

pressing my hat just a little tighter on my head,

and handing me my own brush.   

I see you grabbing the blue drinks cooler and your plastic plaid lawn chair from the garage shelf, filling up the cooler with room temperature water,

placing it under the oak tree open,

and setting up your chair to accompany me as I went for a swim.

I see you sitting across from me on the shag carpet,

our indoor picnic spread separating us,

handing me a cracked green mug,

which I then proceed to drop.

I see you closing the door of your white mustang,

shifting into drive,

and stomping on the gas pedal laughing,

while I can barely peep over the dashboard.

I see you waiting to pick me up from school,

sitting in church on Sundays,

reaching in the cabinet for juicy fruit gum,

cheering from the sidelines of the basketball court,

laughing on the other side of the camera lense,

lounging in your recliner next to me when we watched movies,

waving as we drove away from your house.  

And then I didn’t see you.

It felt as if there was no light to see anything.

Tears trailing down sullen faces onto clenched hands, white and taunt, shaking from shock.  

But after a while of being shut down and shut into my own darkness,

I began to let myself see again,

realizing how blessed I was to even see you in the first place.

Today I see your poor wife

Smiling with uncertainty,

her memory has become greatly impaired,

similar to her eyes after the accident.

I wonder if she can still see you.

And I wonder if you, with that iconic tilted head smile, can see me now.

If you can see me growing into the strong and independent woman you taught me to be.

And even though the pain lingers,

flaring with numbing sharpness,

I can wait to see you again.  

Hopefully when I see you again,

I will see that you were as proud to call me your granddaughter as I am to call you my grandfather,

From Rachel