...my grandfather's pocket watch winds backwards.
... the hands tick towards times of past
as he take long sips of cabernet
...and deep raspy breaths.
... stories unfold like paintings carefully drawn on canvas in sepia tones.
...with chin in hands and eyes following his flickering words I listen and absorb.
... my heart follows his to an era of clarinets and hand written love notes.
... when there was time to dream and time to believe...
... when the horns of ships called out to broken hearts and the air was clear.
... in wondrous, captivating awe I sit across from this man who's love story brought life to mine.
... watching the dancing wrinkles on his face, each line, each crease shows itself to me as an earned badge of courage...
... my grandfather's face reminds me to be brave enough to walk through the dark.
... to know that my story will one day be told though already written in the stars,
as I follow this trail that is laid for me and lined in the same daisies that grew beside his path as he walked it.
...I hear his laughter billowing like the wind and brushing by my face, gently patting my cheek the way his healing hands did so many times as his pocket watch ticked away time.
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