After twenty-eight years he’s here
buying me long blacks
and telling stories from before my time.
One day I’ll document pre-history
let him explain the now through the then
take his word for it and keep it close.
But today I only listen. I’ll say it’s only words.
Until one story ends with tears in our eyes
and I realise I’ve been wrong.
There’s more, of course: the dusty unmarked road
of my family’s village, the crowded bus
the blonde woman in jandals and cheap cotton clothes.
The man who will become my grandfather
in his favourite hat, takes calculated steps
as his son leaves his love to travel on.
He walks his son home with a comforting arm
the story ends in tears, but this is just the first
in a lifetime of constant goodbyes.
This poem deserves a bit more editing, but I haven’t posted a Tuesday Poem in ages! It’s all true of course: My dad was recently in NZ for the first time in years and told me a very sweet story about when my mum left Nepal to continue her travels after they first met. Many more meetings and partings ensued. I hope to hear more about these encounters one day too.