I learned of my heritage from a story
About my grandfather and all his glory.

A story, not mine to tell, but just there
To fill a void, to sew up a gaping tear.

I know of his brilliance, art, and show
But personally, what do I really know?

I wish I could not count the days
When we met each other’s gaze.

But I can.

I recall a man, eccentric, old, one of a few
But all else is from another’s point of view.

I thought, as Granddaughter, I had every right
To know, talk, laugh, love, and see his sight.

Yet now he’s gone, my history, my heritage, and all
Now I stand alone, apart, with no answer to my call