Varying Shades of Blue

Quite strange 
Is the only way I can
describe my feelings right now,
as I stand before
the grave of my paternal grandfather,
dead the year before I was born, 
aged seventy-seven, a good number. 

Never having met him,
only knowing three things about him:
One. He was a traditionalist,
Two. He would have favored granddaughters,
And three. My grandmother is still very much
in love with him,
I don't know how I feel about him. 

How can you grieve for
someone you don't love?
How can you love
someone you've never met,
never heard stories of,
never KNOWN?

And I find it in myself 
dishonorable to fall in love
with a fraud - a concept of
what I wished could've, would've, should've been. 

So I don't love my grandfather,
but I certainly feel a connection,
Standing here, feeling so self-conscious, 
attention floating to
the varying shades of blue
I decided to wear today,
from the dark blue of washed out jeans,
to the lighter blue of my denim polo,
and the lighter yet blue of my tank top,

How appropriate, I think
that it is this color that I bring
to a grave of black and white,
blues for sadness,
When I am nothing more than
contemplative, and even slightly eager
for the day that
I would have a chance
to love my grandfather.