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Alison Dickman

Remembrance

The memories become faded like pictures with torn edges that sit
in a box collecting dust.
I struggle to remember before I lose a part of myself.
Memories of my grandfather sometimes seem like they
are so fragile,
like they could be lost if a light wind were to blow in the wrong direction.
In the shadows of my mind I see myself sitting on his lap.
If I look hard enough, I just see his smiling face,
though rough with age, I feel the love in his eyes as he looks at me,
and I imagine all his hopes and his dreams embodied in the eyes and the
smile of a child.
In the air, I smell the sweet tobacco that permeated from the old,
brown pipe that he seemed naked without.
I see my small chubby fingers grasping the shiny silver brush,
as I stand on my tiptoes to run it through the coarse gray strands that
lined his head.
I feel the graininess of his shriveled fingers as they lift me up into the
safety of his arms.
Memories, so precious, if lost, would seem to leave me empty.
So, I hold on tightly to the pictures and the memories,
no matter how battered and worn with age,
and I pray that they will always remain alive in
the box inside myself that houses my most precious remembrances.