for my grandfather

memory ambushes me from time to time…

i remember that melted ice tastes different from regular water…

there is a rocking chair of the most repugnant paisley…

its frame is black and the arms swoop up from the floor like the neck of a swan to end in swan heads…

the paisley seat and back are worn and faded from years of good use…

the old man who sets in this chair is a right jolly old elf…

first of his family off the boat…

i never heard him laugh, but he did smile…

i never heard him yell, but he was stern…

steadfast and strong was the man…

in winter, i would set on his lap as he read me scripture and i did my best not to fall asleep…

my hands would follow the arms of the chair from the swan heads down…

and back again as his soft voice spoke to me of mathew, mark luke and john…

he was the best man i knew for a time…

and soon there was another to take his place…

but on cold nights with warm fires…

i find my hand looking to trace the heads of wooden swans and testimony of gods word…

in beaten up forgotten furniture of the most repugnant paisley…

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