letter to my grandfather, the beekeeper
do you know why I haven't called?
two years ago, you looked away from my face in the kitchen. I was newly bearded, awkward, aching for your recognition. listening for the song you used to sing to me as a child "you are my sunshine my only sunshine" to play again. I remember swinging from your arms.
I was afraid of you once, when the hail came down big as baseballs and you wanted to save some, and I peeked in the freezer but left the freezer open, and the hailball melted, and you shouted for your belt. I was afraid of you then and sat very still on my chair. but I loved you all the same. and wonder why you never get a word in when she calls. what happens in the silence of your mind besides fox news poison? do you stare at the painting of the sea mom and I painted together on your bedroom wall? do you wonder who loves you, do you think of your father too? what happens in the warm honey browns of your office, that her white redecoration has never been able to touch - the newspaper clippings and accounting books bound in leather, the little figurines of bees.
what were you thinking when you sent me all those clippings of drawings you made in childhood, brown and stiff?
would you be glad if I called, even with a different name?
- PrairieSkirts
