"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.
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
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.