I once had to write an essay in school,
and I put together bits and pieces.
From my father’s occasional statements
and my aunt’s ramblings full of appreciation,
and I carefully constructed you.
You, who’d take long walks without telling anyone
when he’d be back, who’d get annoyed at people
who didn’t use logic. You, who sounds so much
like me. You, Grandfather, who loved
my sister, and never even knew me.
It seems unfair that some people should have
stories, and that I should have to make one up.
They say I’m a good storyteller, Grandfather,
did you know? Did you know that there would be
a walk you’d never return from?
Did you know that your wife would teach a child
to converse like you did, and find you in her again?
And years later, your blood would amble along
those very streets, in search of the home
you never came back to.
It makes for a good story, doesn’t it, Grandfather?
Deep down, I think you’d approve.