Photobox

This was written in honor of my grandfather upon his death some months back.

Each snapshot my memory holds
of you is soft, yet clear. Black,
and white. Maybe this is because your hair
was silver and gray since I had been snapping
pictures. Maybe it's the way a neutral
colored deck of cards were comfortable
in your hands. Perhaps its because
your hands were never smooth
but always worked. I pull photo by photo
out of my box, reminiscing each card
game. Grandma and Aunt Linda's playful
banter developed into laugher at your witty
remarks. Turkey legs, stuffing and ham
disappeared as you devoured more than possible
for your slim frame. As I turn pictures
over, I think how someone else will play
rummykub, my mom's canasta partner will change,
and come January, February, and March
leftover turkey and stuffing will remain
waiting to fill a plate.