As your aura fades from

your jacket,

your car,

my memory,

I have trouble recollecting

the time we had together.

Only hospital beds and funeral homes

seem to come to mind.

 

It’s been

6 months,

1 week,

2 days,

3 hours,

27 minutes,

and 42 seconds

since you last walked this Earth.

 

But who’s keeping track?

Who’s keeping track of the

very last time

you smiled at me,

you winked from across the table,

you told me how proud you were?

 

Your love of travelling

was passed down

to my father

and then to me.

You’ll be with me in spirit

as I tour the world.

My children will inherit the same vitality

I gained from you.

 

From the days where I could

wrap my tiny toddler hands

around your index finger

to our last hug goodbye,

your presence kept me

safe and secure.

 

Though now it’s

merely metaphorical,

you will remain eternally

by my side.

Grandpa.