At breakfast he sits just across
from the coffee cups and pats of butter,
elbows propped on either side of an empty
placemat while I flip through a magazine.
And then I am winding down with the
sun that hugs me through our bay window,
while he is swaying hello from the maple tree
with the shade that falls in and out like an eager child.
He turns down the bed and tells me
the same story of his childhood while I
brush my teeth and close the curtains,
routinely kiss the photo of him on the nightstand.
He touches my face, my grandfather
who lingers still, and I don’t feel it but I can.
Either way there is a warmth I can’t explain;
he leaves me love letters in my dreams.