1961
Thanksgiving Eve
an untimely tragedy
left my father fatherless
and you the only grandpa I ever knew.
Model airplanes on wire,
Posters of cars, Hawaii.
Jam jars of nails and screws.
Drill press
Band saw
Pine planks
Light bulb glow on sawdust drifts.
Miniature engine parts,
boxed beside piles and piles
of Popular Mechanic.
1966 Chevelle.
Three on the tree.
Dueled exhaust.
Cherry-bomb mufflers.
Your apple-red beauty,
polished to mirror
gentle hands,
oil-black and coarse.
1956
The girl from Iowa
chose Spokane
and you.
One daughter,
a wealth of sons
to pass along your lessons
on the mechanics
of life and love.
A generation old enough
to tell of your mischief and kindness.
Babies too young to remember
your hazel eyes,
but small enough to wrap tiny fingers
around your thumb.
1995
Frantic surgery.
Aortic-valve.
You almost died.
Then,
tick-tick
tick-tick
tick-tick
a Tin Man heart.
Years and years and years,
mercy-filled and overflowing.
Moments of fragility,
Brokenness.
Your heart clocked a lot of mileage. More than we deserved.
Long, deep breaths.
An entire life lived in one valley.
Last
breath.
From the doorway, they waved
until the car disappeared.
The last Schmidt wave,
but you were on the shores of Paradise.
1988
Napping with Grandpa.