Spenny

Age and wisdom are reflected in the length of eyebrows; I pray and hope this is true. My grandfather’s were long and he was, I think, wiser than I’ll ever know. When he died, tears rolled down my face, coating and forming a mask I wished would forever last, if only to protect and save his memory within my heart. He mostly kept to himself, and in that I mean, he didn’t share perhaps his greatest wishes or hopes or fears, but he was there to always nudge me on.

When he died, I remembered the napkin holder he’d play with when he ate, and his smile at all things just. Mostly, I recall his desk, rich with papers and drawers, that I never had the urge to explore. Those were his, part of his mystery that I so much admired.

As I stood next to his site, I blinked once, then twice, when I saw his name engraved in stone. I wondered how a man like that could now rest beneath me. But of course he wasn’t, and never would be but here, beside me; if only within my dreams or darkest moments. Always close, to remind me to go on and to foster and feather a song that may make me more wise and content; that I knew a tune that could last like he always will, if only within my heart.

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