His Poetry
I could never understand his poetry. Every day, from 5 o’clock until dusk, he would sit up in that old attic, black ink pen in his trembling fingers. The sunset would illuminate his figure, the bent, wiry frame of his back, the strands of wispy hair, even the veins on his leathery arms. Every day he would sit and write poetry. Once in a while, I would venture up the creaky stairs after he went to bed and attempt to decipher the words in the moonlight. From this I began to witness the inside of my Grandfather’s brain. There were jumbled letters and words, incomplete phrases and backwards letters. It was like something out of a child’s journal. Through the crazy I did find some clues to unlock Grandfather’s mind. The words, “war”, “family” and “Elaine”, were in almost every piece. Elaine was my grandmother. I knew he was thinking about WWII, and all the time he spent there and not here. I knew that as his mind slipped farther and farther out of reach, Grandfather’s poems were something he cared about holding onto. After so many years of cold silence and hostility, I began to see Grandfather as who he was before…who he is inside. After many nights spent up in the dusty attic, I was never able to understand Grandfather’s poetry, but I did begin to understand him.