Miss You
by scott from jail

Harold Meyer, my father's father's mother's brother, was eighty-five
when we met that day in summer, standing on the gravel drive
protecting him and his from a rotten, unforgiving, loveless world
Angry, German, rancher par excellence, rich, and stubborn
the fencing, barn and cattle, each a utilitarian perfect
Simple as Tao framed upon the dirt and dusty hills of eastern North Dakota
waiting for us like the angel guarding Eden
permitting no re-entry to she who left, Anna-Marie, my
eighty-three year old great grandmother, small, long-white-haired, stooped slightly, grey-dressed,
drawn to this awkward, rough and unexpected, unasked-for home-coming,
with Queen Victoria and Albert praising, singing hymns in the background,
and my family, unwelcomed, not questioned, but me -

Challenged, responding, listening to the rasping years pour out their decade pain,

Follow me! He said in almost German,

Opening the grainy bolted, padlocked barn door
to his and her
Christmas Eve, the Bible read, the second Chapter of Luke,
the babe of mangers, stalls and cattle.. of Victoria and Albert
while they turned instantaneously back in time, the children/adults of 1890,
my would be friends, happy at Christmas, he protective, she accepting and demanding it,
lost now to a future life,
whispering over the graves of grass green waving free...

Copyright © 2013 - scott from jail
Published: 6/20/13   ·  Author's Page   ·  Next Poem