GRANDPA WAS A PREACHER

When he wasn’t crisscrossing

The United States,

On highways, some on rock or dirt,

And some on Gospel Faith

He’d fix a screen door…

Paint the porch out back–

My Grandpa was a Preacher,

The Reverend, Brother Mac—

I trailed him through the basement,
Past boxes to his old workbench,
He was always humming hymns…
Ah… there it is… a big pipe wrench.

I followed him, up the steps
Out the slanted door
Out Into the small backyard,
The backyards…lined up in a row.

Back upstairs, I followed him,
Humming, all the time.
Some I didn’t recognize, but this?
    “Heavenly Sunshine”

On the floor I sat, legs crossed,
While I watch him, fix the sink.

He was humming, At The Cross.

I guess it helps him think.

I think it is a preaching thing,,,

His mind, some thoughts, they cross

He grabbed a pen, at his study desk,

Jot down some notes… before their lost.

We drove Aunt Betty to the store.

She got back in. He locks the door.

We take a drive…”Is it raining here?”

Grandpa says, “That’s the Jersey Shore!”

I like it here... new car smell. 

                                                     

Big whitewall tires, New Oldsmobile—

Soon…back home…he’ll drive me there—

If…you love someone…its not quite fair—

No humming...left the air empty.

Empty.

I found his notes…his thoughts aren’t lost.

I can faintly hear…

Jesus Saves…and sometimes,

Beneath the Cross.

Keri Heat