"Come little one.
Let's meet the gee gee on his morning run"
As I toddle off,
My head crowded with feelings of great
anticipation,
My hand safely tucked in his.
His gentle smile transcends
that rough transplanted British veneer
Making my adventure seem all the while,
secure and rewarding
As we stroke the patient milkman's horse
And flatten our palm holding the sweetness
of sugar crystal.
The long shadows of
afternoon stretch out before us
Prompting grandpa to reflect on his working
past
Of horses, dairy routes and traffic of stink
wagons that rattled by
As he settles into a beckoning chair
Striking a match to light
his constant companion.
The first puff of smoke rises from the tired
Briar pipe
And fills the still air in the confines of
the summer porch.
He begins for the umpteenth time.
Barely knee-high
I scramble to hoist myself upon the bony
expanse of his welcoming lap
And gaze with a child's wonderment,
upwardly,
Rocking in rhythm with the song of his
storytelling.
Like an endless novel,
The words spill out in glorious revelation
As he speaks of Babe and Teddy
Friends immortalized in his unconscious
mind.
Brought out of their imaginary pasture for
visitation and entertainment.
Perhaps through grandpa's
eyes,
The wisdom of an old man could sense that
A fervent, religious love of horses
Would take seed, as it had in him
Remaining steadfast and unrelenting in this
little girl.
How long ago those mornings
opened up to us
Soldering grandpa and I to the curb; taking
up our post
As the slow methodical clip-clop
Of the cart horse moves towards our
stationary place.
Through grandpa's eyes
The Babes and Teddys were brought back to
this world
As I remember
Hanging a set of harness on a cleaning hook
Wishing he were here
For my tales need telling too.
Maybe this time they are being heard - and
seen
If only through grandpa's eyes.