In Loving Memory

This poem was written following the passing of my paternal grandfather who was a very giving and honest man and one of the best grampa's a girl could wish for. His passing was a tragic event in my life made better only by the knowledge that he is now no longer hurting and has joined his wife, my grandmother after nearly 7 years of being apart. To honor my Grampa I read this poem to the congregation at my Grampa's Memorial, and managed not to cry though it was not easy reciting a poem on the verge of tears. However everyone else did the crying for me, and I am very glad that I was able to write something from the bottom of my heart that will not only allow me to remember and honor a good man but also give others whose hearts he touched during his lifetime a way to remember and honor him and who he was.

A Portrait of a Good Man

He was a good man, a great man, and he was my Grampa.

An old man with a cane, a cute smile and a funny laugh

He used to build boats, staring out into the wild Pacific

He built a small boat, a puddle jumper.

He built a small house, and a small family

He was a good father. And good husband. And a good man.

His children weren’t always good. And life wasn’t always easy.

And many of his stories went untold or heard only by the salty chilly sea

He was a humble man, a generous man, a simple and quiet man.

Was he a complex man? A thoughtful man? A philosopher?

Who was he underneath that funny laugh, and sly wink?

As he ate his grapefruit each morning what was he thinking?

Was there thought’s that could challenge the most educated scholar?

Or was he simply content to be an honest hardworking man?

A man who worked by the sea, did the ocean ever call out to him?

Did he imagine great wild adventures never realized?

I know he traveled the world by cruise ship,

And traversed the country in a camper van

Could he be defined as a traveling man?

Or was he just content to have a small home, and small family to call his own?

My Grampa, who weaved a thousands things, and kept a thousand pictures.

Came from a big family and loved his small family

Each memory firmly framed by wood and glass

Hung carefully upon the wall, with space and places for each new face, new memory

Do the pictures tell his story or was there something else hidden underneath

Are there words he never spoke that can’t be read in static preserved memories?

A thousand unanswered questions to match a thousand precious memories

Memories of a good man, a great man, my Grampa

A good man now a static memory framed by wood and glass

Sitting on my desk to remind me of a man greatly loved by many

And greatly loved by me, in a way that words and actions cannot describe

Except for what can be read from a picture or a Portrait of a Good Man.