Roots & Ruptures
I used to count coins with my grandfather on the living room sofa;
I never counted on him giving me one, but he always did.
At the market, I carried a folded sheet of paper in my pocket;
“This is the shopping list… the pen marks it.”
After shopping, I’d ask:
“Can I pull the cart on the way back?” He’d let me.
Now, I pull the handbrake in the middle of the night;
While I accelerate, with no turning back, thinking of home.
Without you, these bills are worth less than the coins you gave me.
Today the list is folded, but in a different way, nothing…
That I can’t handle, it’s tough, but I asked for this “stuff”.
I will carry you in my heart, know
That even with an empty pocket I have value because you taught me…
To be fair.
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…
You would wake me up, with coffee served, jokingly saying:
“Good afternoon” and making me laugh.
I listened to the radio on a calm morning;
I greeted those who passed by.
“Hi, Mrs. Dorva,” she’d arrive at the fence and chat.
She’d water the plants and prune them.
“It seems like another life,” when a little meant…
A lot. Now the alarm clock wakes me up;
If it keeps me awake or out of bed, it doesn’t care.
Without time for coffee, I hear the door slam.
The morning passes thinking about tomorrow, the same route;
No greetings, just another hurried person who doesn’t even notice;
What surrounds him and how he behaves.
The lack of time justifies the dead plant…
Forgive me, Grandma.
