I cannot see my grandparents.
I thought they would wait for me
on the cusp of the apocalypse.
Maybe they are there
but I do not recognize them.
Maybe I do not see them
because I never knew what they looked like.
There were no photographs.
I look around for Mom and Dad.
No bickering, so they are not around.
Maybe this darkness with an edge
is not the apocalypse after all.
copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney
It was only after my parents’ death that I learned of a photo album that contained images of my grandparents. I was born after three of them had passed away. I knew my paternal grandfather briefly with only one clear memory of him sitting in a chair in our house at Christmas when I was five years old.
I do not know a way of measuring the effect of having or not having grandparents in your life, how their presences shapes you, and so on. Also I do not know how to measure how their loss affected my parents’ (or anyone’s parents’) attitudes and practices in raising children.
My guess is, through lack of knowing my grandparents, I failed to appreciate family history, the farm, the immigrant experience and how it shaped the family. Simply put, I never got to hear them tell the stories of their lives.
Dianne walked in and wants to hang out. And our brief conversation that initiated hanging out knocked the thoughts I was leading to out of my brain. So If any of you have a thought about the previous three paragraphs, please leave a comment.
Love & Light.