My grandparents, all four,
they bless me as I come into this world,
I bless them as they go.
Go to college, my paternal grandfather always told me,
every time we met, sitting in his recliner,
my father translating the Korean language for me,
the language I still can’t speak or understand.
My paternal grandmother, via my father, always said
Listen to your grandfather, and listen to your mother and father.
My maternal grandfather tells me, in English,
with a Norwegian accent he never lost,
to go to college and not to make dangerous choices.
My maternal grandmother never gave me any advice,
but drank beer and told me stories,
wild and wilder ones, about her crazy life growing up
a stranger in her own strange time and place,
so strange for her, so much stranger for me.
She told me so many things, me sitting on the edge of my seat,
tales loaded with fictional facts, I’m sure,
the bizarre storyteller of the family.
If I had recorded her I would have stories to write to the end of my life.
I know she loved me more than anything else in this world.
Did I deserve it?
Her legacy, through me, sadly,
is that I can’t remember a single word she spoke to me.
Millions of words while she drank her beers, and I ate potato chips,
listening hard to her,
but apparently not hard enough.
I bless them all, long gone now,
and wish I could tell you more about them,
but I recall almost nothing anymore,
and that loss of them for me is a shame.
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Today’s #WritingPrompt is
Use it to inspire a piece of writing, and then post that piece as a comment below. I would love to read it.