For My Grandfather

So, I don't know why, but I have been itching to publish this post. Its been in the back of my mind for about a week now. Maybe its the holidays, maybe its the recent death of an aquaintance, I don't know. I wrote this when my grandfather died a little over 5 years ago. He was awesome. He died on a motorcycle, which, if you gotta go, is probably one of the best ways. He was funny, interesting, told great stories, and probably one of the smartest people that i knew. He reminds me of C. S. Lewis. I did not cry at his funeral. I don't know why I didn't, I guess I just knew that it was going to be O.K.
this is a finished poem.


For My Grandfather



    I remember when
dad called and told me he died. Everything
        melted out of


My hands, became an instant
    Puddle of memories rippling
And reflecting of him. I tried to
   Gather the mass with my hands,
But it leaked through

My fingers as liquid tends to do.

He wrote his life

down

    For his family that he
never met, or, only hugged once
        for a brief moment.


    It was spiral bound.
bound like the motorcycle that

took his life.

    I didn't cry over
his body, dry and sinking into the casket,
        despite my love

For him.

At Arlington
He received a 21 gun salute
And we were proud. Some of these


Memories solidify, become many
Sided, and can be turned and
Examined in the hands
    
                 Like a Rubik's Cube.

W. K. Medlen