Heirlooms

Heirlooms


After my grandfather died,
my grandmother,
aching with her loneliness,
gave me some of his personal effects;
a yellow flannel shirt that had dried
deer blood on the pocket,
always too small for me,
a dangerously sharp straight razor
complete with strop,
a pair of his brown zyl glasses
with flecks of oil paint
still on both lenses,
and a bone hair brush,
laden with some of his hair.

Today is Friday, his death day,
so once more I open the White Owl
cigar box to visit with those
precious heirlooms. Once again
I will notice some
of his long grey hairs
loose in the bottom. One more time
I will pick up a single hair
between my thumb and index finger
holding it up to the light,
anxiously awaiting
the wonderful weeping
which always commences as
I touch
a flake of his skin.


Glenn Buttkus March 2010