They say he used to sing
And dance, when he played
I’ve heard the family stories
A thousand times,
About my “Grande”, Marvin.
I only have vague memories —
He passed when I was very young.
But I look at the wooden mandolin
About the songs that were sung.
I see the oiled, mellow wood,
Aged well, without a crack.
I see the thin, silvery strings,
Which are still in tune,
And sometimes wish him back.
If only to see his merry jigs,
Or watch his sausage-fingers play.
I hear the music in my mind
And I wonder what he’d say, if he knew
His instrument was kept so well?
Would he strum the words,
And dance them, too?
If the world could reverse,
And time stand still,
I’d dance at my grand-father’s side
I’d hug him and tell him I loved him, too.
When I look at Grande’s mandolin,
The smiling memory I have
Is made delighted and new.
~ C.L.R. ~ © 2007