What are our wounds
But soil
Ready
To be tilled with our fingers
Ground in our palms
For wisdom.
For ourselves
For an aunt. A father.
Black caulk
To mend
Cracks in souls
Cracked open
Just like ours.

what would my great-grandpa say?
as he found his seat in a slick fusion restaurant
robe pulled to his knees
to reveal his slip-on shoes making contact with the ground

what would he do, as he sat across from me
would he study my hands, scouring for traces of how i earned my keep?
or would he sit back and bask in watching me place our order
seemingly commanding a small army of busboys and waiters
our tribe produced a chief!

what would it be like for me to look into my great-grandfather’s eyes
would they be welcoming portals into births he celebrated and deaths he mourned?
memories of his friends sharing a story by candlelight?

or would it be like staring into a wall
the concrete slab of hardened operator unimpressed with our circumstance
“you’ve lost your hair – why aren’t you married yet”?
or: “tell your father he owes me some money”

i’d like to think we’d get along fine
we’d finish our last bites of food and make our way outside

where he’d take me by the wrist and lead me to a nearby collecting pool
where he’d teach me how to make a flute from a piece of reed
and twine with its roots
where he’d tell me a salty story about when my grandfather was a teenager
and give me advice on what to look for in the mother of my children

so that one day they may have children
so that one day those children may have children
so that one day of them may sit alone at a restaurant
on a warm Sunday evening
and wonder

what would my great-grandpa say?

As originally shared at Words Tell Stories: