WHY THIS POEM IS SET OUT BY ITSELF/NOTES ON MY GRANDFATHER

First things first: this poem belongs out by itself for any number of reasons, not the least of which is that the central moment that constitutes the real movement of the poem is a moment of solitude. More to the point, the rest of the poems on this page have a certain sarcasm and satiric intent that this poem does not.

Besides, he was my grandfather.

Pop, christened David Tyndall Williams, was born the son of a missionary and lived the life of a scientist. He was a great story teller, devoted father, and affectionate grandfather to devoted and affectionate grandkids. For my part, he taught me what I know of how to play tennis and golf, most of what I know about science, and, wholly inadvertantly, half of everything I know about poetry. Not to take away from Doc Amante, Fred Smith, Robin Hemly, Chris Davis, Robert Grey, Tom McLaughlin, and the many others under whom I studied poetry, both in theory and content, in criticism and critical theory, nor from my parents, who taught me not only how to appreciate the good things in life, but also why. Pop taught me that you walk on the beach. You just do. He taught me the beauty of the sand scuff. He taught me that you suffer the prickly pears because the morning glories are worth it. And, above all, he taught me that there's always something else behind the something, and that there is nothing from which a pun cannot come. (My father and uncles, of course, reinforced this lesson without mercy.)

It's no great family secret, and I don't think any of the family would mind me saying, that the bulb began dimming for Pop some time ago. He began collecting the stories of his life. I scoffed (very privately); I knew the old goat would outlive us all. The last year of his life he was just chugging on like nobody's business, and then he started having problems. The physical things didn't bother me, although there was a foot injury that was stubborn healing; the mental things were the ones that bothered me. He had periods of confusion. I have heard-- as I'm sure we all have-- of older people not being able to recognize their progeny. The thought of Pop not recognizing me hurt me deeply. The thought of Pop not recognizing my father shocked me to my core.

We had discussed bringing him up from Florida to Charlotte, and had even gone so far as to visit a couple of assisted living facilities, when illness very suddenly overtook him. It felt like it lasted forever, then he was gone, and it seemed to all have happened in an instant.

So this poem is for my family, in memory of Pop. I am tempted to say that this poem is for Pop, but it is not. It is inspired by him, and that, I am convinced, is even better. Had he been alive to read it, I hope I know what he would have said, and I know everyone in my family, with little effort, can imagine hearing him say it:

"Wow!"