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Show If Approached, He Might Recognize Me for my grandfather Sitting in an undershirt on the soft sofa, half-asleep and curved in a pose that resembles the arched outlines of the oak trees beyond the orchard fence, balding, beside a folded silhouette, he fingers the metal-rimmed glasses that are still not quite powerful enough for his failing eyes. He holds no grudge, is not yet eccentric, and, though he doesn't admit that this frail body is any longer his, seems confused by the strange, single-minded satisfaction he receives when he opens the shutters to watch the workmen fill in the trenches that lay exposed at the edge of his clean evening. If approached, he might recognize me. With a quiet gesture he'd call me closer, tell me of an encounter in France, of the singed forests, or the elegant fountains of Paris. He might even recollect a song, the names of victims, or the pain of lungs caught in a gas cloud. Then, with a faint smile, crouching to touch below his knee, point to the entry wound still visible, and, once again, I'd glimpse into that peephole. |
