White-haired Ramble

And he is whiter now;

a mostly silver toping

as he places old clothing

in the wheelbarrow,

creating a makeshift stroller

for his twelfth, and likely

last, grandchild.

The bold sun battles the

chilled wind on this early

November day behind a mid-

term election. He wheels the

blue-capped toddler around.

The little would-be prince

peers out from behind his

fleecy wraps at this iron-

wooded arbor. Never one

to sit still in a stroller, he 

now kneels as if in prayer,

holding the sides of this

new buggy; a vehicle with

such an interesting driver.

Who is this silver-haired man

who “woofs” like a dog and

“caws” wildly at the crows to

draw them to his feeding post

after delivering the contents of

last-nights meal?

The small passenger looks rather stoic

on this cold-winded ramble across the

dead grass. But he doesn’t complain or

gesture to get out. And so I leave him

to enjoy these moments with this

white-haired man; my father, now

seventy years old. Because one

never knows how many more

Novembers of ramble there might

be. The gift of the grandparent,

both precarious and precious

to one born in his parents’

forties. There is so much still

wanted for this little one.