White Wooden Bench

He sat very still on a white wooden bench
in the shade of a Live Oak tree.
His thick white hair, always neatly combed,
fell across his forehead, locked
in place by sweat beads
on moist skin.

My Grandfather never said the word "no."
"Play with me, Granddad."  "Let's go," he would say.
"Catch me," I called out in a game of tag
as he chased me around the yard.

His breath came slowly one afternoon,
in raspy gulps and irregular gasps.
As a child it never occurred to me
that someday I would stand in the yard
by myself, throw the ball to a vacant
spot where he used to stand, or
sit alone on the white wooden bench,
longing to hear him call my name,
remembering his open arms of love.

The old white bench is splintered now;
nature has taken the upper hand.
But I go there sometimes, my child in my arms,
and she plays at my feet as I sit
in the shade of the aging
Live Oak tree.

Sometimes I think he sits by my side,
watching my daughter play,
and I hear in the wind the sound of his voice:
"Well done, young man.  Well done."