and I am awed
by the cold and dusty domain of mason jars fur coats plastic bouquets.
they sit on shelves with sad anticipation, dormant as forever through the mild months of May and June
when I would pick agrest and bring the berries to the turquoise kitchen.
Dziadzi would notice the pink of pride in my eight year old cheeks, smile and wink one of his watery blue eyes.
of course then I could not understand the depth of their patience and pain
all I saw was the love of a grandfather
when his granddaughter brought gifts from the gooseberry bush.
I remember when he made me that "Belle's room" sign. I was five.
It was shiny like a mirror. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
he hung it on the door of the room where I slept, and I promptly was a princess.
I think on the dusty haze of afternoons he spent making birdhouses and shelves,
his brow furrowed in precision and love as he cut and hammered.
and I am awed.
they stand scattered like sacred statues around that house,
silent and noble as he was, the wooden vestiges of his honor.
they are quiet as his suffering.
sometimes I am startled by their presence,they speak thousands of words he never did.
as he aged his big rough hands grew clumsy, rings loose around his shaky fingers.
and then he couldn't build anymore.
sometimes I sit in the Belle room and contemplate how his lips, with their rare grin
never issued complaint.
and I am awed.
if I let myself I can still hear the sound of his unsure step heavy across the morning
as he woke to make coffee, sometimes cream of wheat.
if I let myself I miss his rolled up sleeves and his laugh through gritted teeth,how he used to drive with his knees and the beautiful purity of the stoic affection that he bestowed on our family.
each day he unflinchingly took the blows of life with a carpenter's wisdom.
my Dziadzi
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