His wide-eyed granddaughter:
caramel skin, proper yellow dress,
first set of heels, just an inch
off the ground.
She sits in the front pew
with her worn grandmother:
now widow, wiry hair wild.
Arms wrapped around each other
for dear life.
Her gaze fixes on the bereft friend,
as she hears him call out her name.
Ten-year old eyes impossibly wider still.
In this sea of magnificent witness,
they exist only for each other.
He beseeches her to remember:
she nods earnestly. Over and over,
as he tells us what she meant
to her grand Papa.
Does she know to what she assents?
Not entirely, but she intuits.
Though partial, it is enough.
And perhaps better.
(cc) Karen G. Johnston
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