I dreamt about my grand—
father last night.
He trembled oddly
as he hugged me. I thought
perhaps it was because
of his age, but
he seemed no older
than I ever knew him.
He was still sturdy,
round and wearing
suspenders.
I’d call him Grandpa
Malcolm if I had another
who shared his title;
just like I had a Grandma
Marie and
Grandma June.
But there was never a reason
to do the same for him.
And when he died
I stopped talking
about him altogether.
Not that I spoke
of him much in his
life.
But I’m certain
there’s something bringing
him back. Because I
never knew him, never
received his sagely
advice, I must have
called for his hug
in some way.
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