We did not bury him in the sandy soil; neither

UPON THE DEATH OF MY GRANDFATHER AFTER A LONG ILLNESS IN GAINESVILLE, FLORIDA

Did my father and his brothers bear

His casket on their shoulders

Except by memory and metaphor. My Grandfather

Was gone before I got there. Nothing was left to do

But listen to the choir, shake hands with his friends and brethren scientists,

And give each other cause for reflection

Upon a life well lived. Afterwards

I took my time, standing

And staring at the floor of Florida, Oh, sandy, dark

soil of my childhood, this place I remember, this place

I will never be again. We packed up a lifetime

Of scientific reports, proofs of the existence of particulate matter

Suspended in air, divided his possessions amongst ourselves, sweated and strained

And put our shoulders together loading the truck

Full of a grand old man’s grand life; I sorted through albums of arias,

Took a hat that didn’t fit, got a chair and a Hi Fi, but mainly

Got this: we are here, all of us,

Upon a wild surmise, leading ourselves

Through an existence we never could have postulated. We must be

Above all else, good scientists

In order to divine the meaning of life in this life

That is open to many meanings. Standing on that soil one last time, enjoying

The sight and sound and smell that in my mind will always be

Florida, childhood, wonder and understanding, this hothouse place

So full of insects and memories, is strong under my feet

And in my heart of hearts

Where my strongest memories

Make up the strongest part

Of my soul.

G’bye, Pop.

James MacFarlane Williams