Strangers

How many more springs have passed
since I last saw the big tree in your backyard,
the one that cousin Sam once climbed?

White blooms floating from the branches,
I watched outside the window
with a tinge of pain
when Grandmom asked, Who’s this?

The clock ticked.
We looked at each other –
I a victim of puberty,
you a bald old man with goggly glasses,
groaning from your gravelly throat,
saying nothing.

Pictures of our family surrounded us.

I wish I listened better when you still told your stories – when you still had teeth. All I remember now is the story of you and the man on the phone who said nothing, and you replying, You don’t say...

I remember you forgetting me
but still trying to make conversation
with the little stranger in the dining room.

Unable to understand
a single word that whistled through your gums,
I only smiled and you smiled back.

So many stories to tell,
yet the chance to listen
slipped like sand through my fingers –
maybe you’re the reason I love each stranger I see.

Grandpop, I miss you and cousin Sam
and the big tree in your backyard –
how many blossoms have rained down,
how much snow has covered its branches
since then?

I ask but
you don’t say...