My Grandfather

Born into a world recovering from one of the greatest wars,

war that was fought on Flander’s fields with now growing poppies,

poppies that represent fallen soldiers,

Soldiers, he knew a lot of families that had broken families,

Family, his was small. A little boy with curly blonde hair,

hair that would find itself in the stems of my existence. 

He was an engineer, a man of great mind,

mindful of the family he wanted to create.

Created a base for me by marrying my grandma and birthing my dad,

dad to my dad, their relationship was too close for their own good.

Now, I see his name on books he had written,

written in the prime of his years,

years he had spent forming incomprehensible words into a work of art. 

Art that he once so loved hangs there now or is locked away,

away he is from me since almost three long years.

92 years of thriving life, achieving things I could never dream,

Dream big, he always said as things just didn’t go right,

right about so many things he was, always so wise and true,

true emblem of what a man should be after having been taken by the Gestapo years before,

before my father was born, before the world became a place of hate,

hate in his eyes when we taledk about the concentration camps where he was forced to work.

That one phone call that everyone dreads,

dread flooded through me as I held the phone crying,

crying more than could ever be possible,

Possibility of flying back home to see my passed away inspiration,

inspiration he still is as I do everything he would have wanted me to,

“To hell with things that don’t always work out.” 

- Beatrice