Poetry

The empty picture frame still smelled like his workshop.

She has seen it a hundred times, but she had never noticed before

how perfectly precise the joins were made at the corners.

She just stood for a time, staring blindly off in the distance.

Her hand rhythmically caressing the wood,

as if her fingertips were made of sandpaper,

She wondered what photo

he would have chosen

to fill such a beautiful frame.

In her eyes, as a child,

the stars shone only on him.

He was greater than the man who walked with her,

greater than the man who taught her to ride a bicycle.

He was greater than Superman.

He was greater, until …

Until…

His chair was forever empty when she went to visit.

He was no longer seen on sultry afternoons,

trying to get the hay harvested before the snow flies.

He was no longer the driver of the snowmobile

.which pulled the sleigh carrying her whole family over

the crisp white blanket.

How could the man who taught her to dream her dreams,

how could her grandfather, who expected her to chase them,

be only a whisper when she did?

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