My grandfather always walked
With his hands behind his back.
His lips twitch
Whenever the afternoon lights come.

He pats us on the head
Whenever we pass by.
Gives us his blessing
Whenever we chase dragonflies.

He’s a master
Of his pots and pans,
Knives and meat
Sugar and salt.

He inflames his insides
With bitter tasting water.
Though clear and treacherous,
It seems to answer his questions.

He fills himself
With endless streams of smoke that sticks to his skin.
It curls up and disappears into oblivion
But tames his tired soul.

The taste of the estopado
His touch and
His scent in the afternoon
Are nailed memoirs.

From now on I shall remember how he sailed away
From the seas of the living
For today and probably tomorrow,
I shall smell my grandfather in me.

16 June 2007