Christine

I reach for my grandfather’s face Yearning to touch his gold-rimmed spectacles, Them twinkling, Taunting, Teasing. Yet now they are mine, My grandfather’s last gift From him to me. But I hold myself back, The irrational fear of being disappointed Rising within me, Pinning me down. My hands grope in the dark unknown, Hesistant, Uncertain. Taking a chance, A leap, I place them on my nose Seeing through them, Seeing through my grandfather’s eyes. The world blurs and I am back In my grandfather’s lap, Lunging for those gold-rimmed spectacles.