A Letter, Part 1.

To my Father's Father,
Who only held me once,
Who, try my best, I can't remember,
I write a note of love.
When I was born,
Soon after, you died.
But, I know you were a hero.
You taught my Father how to be a man
And you guided him through life,
Keeping a hand on his shoulder
While at the same time
Keeping your temper.
You built a kingdom for your sons to rule,
And left instructions for them
That they have obediently followed.
Though my memories of you are not concrete,
Not made of anything substantial,
Just watery, translucent,
I feel we are much closer than we are.
Through stories, I met you.
Through tales, I knew you.
Through jokes and laughs and tears, I loved you.
And, though you are somewhere else,
I feel I know you.

But, to really see you,
In images caught on tape,
In videos captured ages ago,
I feel as if I have truly met you for the first time.
You look just as I'd seen you look
Just as I imagined;
Strong, firm, knowing eyes,
My Father's ears, my Father's smile,
My Uncle's nose, my Aunt's eyes.
In grainy, blurry, cheap-film memories,
I see in you pieces of me.
And I shake my fist at fate,
For taking you from me,
For taking you from your sons and daughters
Before they were ready for you,
Before I could even remember you.


To my Father's Mother,
Who I never even met,
Who kept her strength in the face of danger,
Like a hero,
I write with admiration.
From those tales that have danced into my ears
And nestled, sleepily, in my memory,
I learned about you.
You never learned to drive,
You never cooked for less than ten,
And you stood strong through illness
Where most would
And did
Fall to their knees.
When my Father was born,
You might have left even earlier,
Depriving him of memories
Of his mother,
Just as your cancer did to me. 

I thank you for your legacy,
For raising my Father well,
For giving me  my heritage,
And for teaching me,
Though we never met,
How to live a dream.
You fought your way out of Hell
In  your early, formative years,
And were thrust back in later in life.
But you fought.
You kept your head out of the inferno
And maintained your strength,
While, at the same time,
Feeding a family of nine.
It was not the cancer that took you from me.
It was the treatment.
The "cure."
But, because you stayed and taught my Father,
Your legend brought you back.


To my Mother's Father,
Who was my friend,
I write a compound letter;
One with sorrow,
And one with gladness.
You were my only Grandfather
And you recieved all of my love.
My memories of you are vivid,
Like the surviving taste of your vegetables
And the lingering smell of your tobacco.
I spent the early part of my life
In your house,
On your lap,
In your garden,
At your table,
Playing and laughing with you all the while.
And, even to the end of your long life,
You never failed to grin and chuckle
When I walked through your familiar door.

You held strong through your own personal Hell,
When you overcame your disease.
You kept around for my Mother,
And for your wife,
Before they brought me into the world,
And brought you into mine.
As I look fondly back
Into the scrapbook of memories I have built in my mind,
I regret those times that I cheated at poker,
Or ate the last bit of ice cream in your freezer.
But, I realize
Years after you left us,
That you never minded.
You always wrinkled your eyes
And chuckled merrily,
And patted me on the head with your strong hand,
With a gap where the ring finger should be,
And told me that you forgave me.
So, I write to you
Eyes filled with happy tears
Remembering you
And recalling how fortunate I was
To be able to call myself your friend
And to be able to call you my Grandfather.