the Grandfather clock
rang sporadically
perhaps signaling to me
that something was missing
in the moment.
I shifted on the crushed ocean blue
corduroy seamed couch uncomfortably,
and eyes pinned to the hand on the clock,
once again slanting forward,
studied you in your chair.
I wanted to tell you everything,
the dreams I had,
the thoughts that constantly
occupied the space of my head,
how being single had proved tricky
throughout the duration of my teenhood,
how I always thought that
my green eyed, soft mother
should talk more about
the man who had died
in the wake of things
unsaid
without it being difficult
to comprehend.
I could see how it might be,
the normal person moves
on from anything
far too painful with their life
in order to truly live
they avoid addressing the void.
But I don't understand.
Maybe, I'm not mature enough yet.
I've just always felt like
something was absent
in my existence.
And it's him.
Always has been.
No matter which way
I try in vain
to put my head around it
there's no point in trying
to avoid it any longer.
I feel him,
his presence veiling
my every move
as I scuttle down the street
running errands
I see him in my dreams
and he's always so proud of me
no matter the obstacles in my life,
all the pain, and laughter, and clouds
of hope fogging up my psyche,
he forgives and forgets
because I'm the granddaughter he
never knew.