The Echo of His Voice

My grandfather's words rise like songbirds,  

lifting from his throat, soft and sure,  

not weighed down by expectation or duty.  

He tells us of rivers he’s crossed,  

bridges built with both hands weathered.  

There is no textbook in his syllables,  

no classroom sternness in his gaze—  

only the glint of remembering,  

the way sunlight hugs earth at dawn.  

We sit in a circle, toes brushing carpet,  

his stories pulling our chests forward,  

as if leaning closer might make  

the past fit in our small palms.  

He once spoke about stars: "Maps for the lost."  

Another time, about storms: "They teach stillness."  

And we listened, splitting oranges between us,  

our hearts charting the arcs of his wisdom.  

There is no command for us to follow,  

only a whisper tucked beneath his breath.  

And yet, we walk days feeling heavier,  

carrying his stories like lanterns in the dark.