Saturday, July 17, 2010
An Ode to Winter: It's Not the Only Chill
My grandfather’s voice faded as I stared at the old photograph wondering what it would have been like to have been watched, photographed, and then fired upon. The heat wave of the bombs dropped the next morning was said to have burned shadows onto buildings. What would it have been like? My mind tried to come to terms with that of a WWI survivor and fell short. Removing my eyes from the picture, I looked at the dusty old film reel at the bottom of the box.
“Daddy, can we go home yet?” My daughter’s voice echoed to where I was at downstairs. Would she remember him?
“No, baby, Daddy has lots to do to help clean out Grandpa’s house. Do you want to come and see some pictures?” Her light footsteps treaded on the old wooden stairs.
“Are they pictures of Grandpa?” Her four year old voice told me that these pictures would hold more memories than his brief presence in her small life and I was struck with another wave of grief.
God be with you till we meet again.