Fly Home, Grandfather

I imagine Papa Al
in the stories he tells,
walking to school
(uphill both ways).

He told me swamp stories
about his daddy and granddaddy
swimming with red-eyed gators,
silly stories about a man who, with one shot,
brought home half the forest
for supper.

There is a story about the creek.
He says,
"I rode in the wagon, pulled by my older brother, William.
We ventured down the road and to the small creek.
We were in Utopia
when we were down by the creek
by ourselves."

In my mind,
I hear him singing
by that creek,

“Way down yonder in the middle of the branch
The old sow fiddled and the little pigs danced.”

In my mind,
I am a child,
playing with my grandfather.

The faint smell of pipe tobacco in the air,
I am sitting on the soft brown carpet
by his chair.

My airplane spins and dives
behind the bookshelf.

But he can do this perfectly.
His fingers fold the paper
perfectly in half,
folding the ends toward the center,
and with a penny on the nose,
the airplane is complete
and perfect.

And he had wanted to be a pilot.
And this time the draft board
says his vision is perfect.

And at the end
we are folded inward,
toward our center.

Fly home, grandfather.