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Prairie Lines

The Grandpa That I Never Met

By Jennifer Lorraine - Bloch McGeePublished about a year ago Updated about a year ago 1 min read
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Prairie Lines
Photo by Florin Beudean on Unsplash

The absense of my grandpa is tangible, like

water breaking,

owing to substance, its due, then sinking

from the weight of gravity.

I imagine his existence, a richness, hard in its truths.

Grandpa props his work boots against the wood stove.

Soil skitters across the paper thin floor.

Grandma serves him breakfast and buries the dirt inside

to stabilize their roots; dirt from

grandpa's soles - flawed in its condition -

like his bowed legs and heart surgery,

which killed him. Mexico medicine

to still his heart.

Grandpa makes the horses hooves thunder East across the prairie,

where heart beats leave an impression, but not a footprint.

A mirage, created from the rising dust, becomes

stamped in memory: strong in its discretion of lines and pressure.

Upon dismount, grandpa's boots writhe in the dirt for purchase,

dragging pebbles, gravel and earth into the grooves. The significance

of the footprint is in the blank space: what the leather syphoned up

spreading through life.

Dad tends the farm while grandpa dies from living and,

when he passes, mom finds herself caring for twins.

Holding me in her arms, mom motions out the window to the field.

Dad plants with a hoe and sows with a rake,

dragging the compost under like peat. Soil and mineral blend with

enough pressure to create the finest crop the land can offer,

like natural diamonds exposed.

A curtain catches the breeze and it rises in a wave.

Dust and seed dance across mom's brow, the light breeze following.

Closing her eyes, she imagines the moment

a sculpture

seen by millions,

evoking the feeling of soft sheets touching as breath.

My brother curls a cubby hand around a block

displaying the letter P. He shakes it at the air

as though in definace of the loss.

Grandma tends the garden alone,

a handkerchief tied on her head to hide her hair from the elements,

so it won't lose its shape.

sad poetry
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About the Creator

Jennifer Lorraine - Bloch McGee

*Imagination is the plaything of fairies. Without imagination we are doomed*

My heart and soul goes into my writing. If I don't bleed a little, I haven't done it right.

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Comments (1)

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  • Donna Reneeabout a year ago

    This is so deliciously beautiful all throughout... Fantastic. ❤️

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