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| dead grandfather poems � � Every time I try to go that distance, travel the years backward, he's always doing the same thing: � loading cement bags into a truck, sweat staining shirt and pants, brown hands covered with dust. � The sun is always white hot and the bags make the same thunk as they fall, in rhythm, over and over. � Every time I find him, like this, I tap him on the shoulder and ask the same questions: � �Abuelito, no me conoces? Why are you doing this? What does this all mean? � It's always the same: he stops working, lays his hands on my shoulders, � and in a deep voice, breath dusty and hot on my face, he asks me to help � load the cement bags because the day will be over soon and he just wants to go home. |
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| duende2112 Arturo Vasquez II 2000 |