(August’s theme at the BeZine is Music. This is a piece I wrote some years ago and it never felt finished, so I thought I would revise it and set it here for all you fine readers to enjoy.
I didn’t know my maternal grandfather (we grand-kids called him “Grand-e”, rhymes with candy) that well, as he died when I was young. But I have seen the pictures and heard many tales of his prankish sense of humor. He was a large, jolly man who loved to tell jokes and laugh. He also sang songs while playing the mandolin and was quite nimble on his feet for having such a hefty frame. My mother kept his mandolin in wonderful condition and examining it helped inspire this piece.)
~ Grande’s Mandolin ~
They say he used to dance
and sing, when he played
I’ve heard the stories
a thousand times,
about my “Grande”, Marvin.
I only have vague memories —
he passed when I was young.
I look at his instrument
about whiskey and jigs, songs sung.
I marvel at the oiled, mellow wood,
aged well, without a crack.
I hear the thin, tuned silvery strings,
and sometimes wish him back…
If only to see his merry moves,
or watch his sausage-fingers play.
I can hear and picture it perfectly,
and I wonder what he’d say,
if he knew,
how cherished this family memory was?
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, love him, and ask for a tune.
And I’d listen to him pluck his mandolin.
© 2015 ~ C.L.R. ~