I hold my grandson’s hand as my father
held mine, palm to palm with the warmth of life in the fingertips of reassurance, each step a question or pointing “look” - Oh how many whys a day beholds trucks and cats, jackets and trees - time flickers, and I think of all the prayers, word searches for the soul, I have struggled to solve, and here in the gentle grip of trust the answer flowers in the here I am the impulse overflow that stills the thought. How simple when my father’s shadow walks in his namesake’s joy and I in ghost-mind walk as zaydes walk on Friday nights, when heaven and earth have come to rest and angel songs are all that’s left, and blessings for each step.
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October 2016
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