|
Farsighted |
- "Hello grandfather," said a voice,
- "Hello grandfather, are you there today?"
- Said the voice of a little girl,
- A small, slender creature, six years of age,
- With dark eyes gazing into his --
- Hopefully, pensively gazing outward
- Beneath dark waves of silken hair.
- "Are you with us today?" she asked
- Of the aged, wizened face before her.
- Her voice fading to a whisper,
- She stood silently still, searching his eyes
- For some sign of recognition.
- His eyes stared back, unblinking, unfathomed,
- Gazing past the girl, and the room,
- Through the very walls, and outward, outward,
- To somewhere farther, farther still.
- The small, patient, great-grandaughter
- Climbed into his lap and sat cross-legged,
- Placing her head gently against
- The slow, gentle rise and fall of his chest,
- She heard the sound of his breathing,
- And deeper rhythms of his quietly
- Beating, but still strong heart.
- His old dark eyes stared outward from
- Beneath a creased and thoughtful brow. His eyes,
- The eyes of one who has lived long,
- And through much, were marked with cares of age,
- Framed at the sides with short, gray hair,
- And crowned with a scalp of burnished leather
- From a lifetime spent in the sun.
- His eyes, unblinking, were not glazed,
- But focused, perhaps, on some distant point,
- Somewhere further away it seems
- Than possible here in the current day.
- There are some distances observed,
- Some great gulfs that only time can create,
- And only memory can span.
- The old eyes in distant focus
- Shifted somehow, and came nearer,
- Focusing, after intervals,
- On the present place, present day,
- And the small presence in his lap,
- Head still pressed softly to his chest,
- With eyes now closed in gentle sleep.
- "I am here, granddaughter," he said,
- I am here now, I'm back again."
- He stroked her long black silken hair,
- Long smooth strokes of his aged hands,
- Painful hands, once strong, and skillful,
- Hands which had made his living once,
- Now looking like wrinkled parchment.
- Broad, straight, long-fingered hands, now worn,
- Now creased, now bent, with swollen joints.
- "Where was I? you may ask, young one,
- Where was I now, just now, today?"
- His words were slowly, clearly said
- To his small, sleeping audience,
- Leaning his head ever slightly
- As if for a better view of
- What distance had partly obscured.
- "I was standing there in the rushing surf,
- Waves broke, and splashed, and danced about my knees
- On a ribbon of beach that stretched for miles
- Where white coral sands met pure aqua seas.
- And over my head in file upon file
- The dancing coconut palm trees
- Smiled and tossed their hair in the sun.
- "On this white sand beach I stood,
- Near the shore, beneath the shade
- Of the palms that overhung the water,
- Feeling the sand ebb between my toes,
- Feeling the water's constant pull.
- "In early morning, an hour past dawn,
- I stood there, and while above me
- The palms danced with the warm winds,
- Below me the filtered light danced on the waters,
- Making sparkles upon sparkles
- From where I stood outward
- To the ocean's crisp horizon.
- "And beside me, in her youth, your
- Grandmother stood, more beautiful to me always
- Than anything else my eyes saw ever,
- And with the wind bouncing in her hair,
- And the waves sparkling in her eyes,
- And the tide sweeping the sands beneath our feet,
- We walked along the dappled shore.
- I remember each time she kissed me that day,
- The taste of the salt on her lips,
- And the smell of orchids in her long dark hair,
- The feel of white sand on her skin.
- I remember these things so much more clearly
- Than anything else that I see,
- Or I smell or I touch today,
- Though many long decades now stand in the way.
- I hear the waves reach, climb, and fall,
- I hear the wind hiss through the palms,
- I hear the diving seagulls call,
- And hear her voice, her laugh, and her sigh, again.
- The dark clutter of years obscures many things,
- But never this.
- Never, never this.
Back
© 1998 Stephen L. Spanoudis, all rights reserved worldwide