We loaded the car to visit every summer –
four animated girls were enough to leave you out of breath.
You won me with a Mickey Mouse ice-cream pop.
I won you with a mug made of Carolina red clay.
We cut out construction paper hearts,
and sent them to you with our love. You cherished them all
because you knew that things would change.
Things would grow older.

When I got older we drove down for a brief visit.
I noticed your hands shaking as you cut your meat,
your voice trembling as you quietly spoke.
You still had pink construction paper piled in your drawers.
But I didn't have time for paper hearts anymore.
You bought me a Mickey Mouse ice-cream pop.
But I didn't eat ice cream anymore.
But now, Granddaddy, if you could only buy me one more pop,
I'd eat it just for you,
to pretend that things hadn't changed
the way you knew they would,
and to love you as I did then, and as I do now –
both at once.

Because now I realize that you were just holding on
to the hand of a little girl who was too young to hold on with you.
And now that I understand,
that little girl has long since run off out of sight.
And now that I understand,
it is suddenly my turn to do the holding.
So here's my hand, Granddaddy,

Hold on.