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Poetry — Remembering my grandfather and the kindness he showed me
first memory
edged in feathery white
a bed covered in cream-colored blankets
a cloudless sky through an open window
it was morning
in the ever-beating heart of Paris
I sat in Papa’s lap
and he bounced me up and down
to the tune of a French nursery rhyme
his smoker’s voice rumbling
from deep within his chest
people stared when I called him Papa
his fluffy white hair and round belly
too old to be a father
but he was my grandfather
and we all called him Papa
years later
he visited us in California
and we all rioted for his attention
he sat on my bed one afternoon
my clarinet balanced on my knee
he was like a garden gnome settling in the moss
ready to listen to my playing that was
so unlike the smooth chocolatey notes I’d envisioned
afterwards he clapped and his gravelly voice praised me
tres bien, ma cherie
I’d never felt so happy before
playing clarinet
than when I played for him
that rainy afternoon
the year I was twelve
