(for our grandparents)

we are finally at an age
when we will have known intimately
this newest generation to be buried.
during the last set of mass departures,
we tended to be sleeping warmly
in bellies or crying unabashedly in the soft
light of candles and the vastness of echoing
chambers. the greats, as we called them,
were only truly great in someone else’s
memory – we barely got to clasp
onto their warm, leathery hands –
but we have been privy
to their journeys like following a familiar
bell tolling incessantly in the mist.

now this new generation beckons us:
we have drank from their bowls, picked
from their plates, found respite in their
laps and safety within their arms –
at every curve in the road and with
each shifting wall, they have been
a part of our journey.
the day is clear
but their eyes grow misty.
we hold their leathery hands, wondering
when they had the time to turn.
and through all these last moments
our hearts are tolling madly.
the familiarity is yet too close
.
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