Wednesday, November 17, 2010

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. 

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