my grandpa told me
if I closed my eyes, he could skip a rock
all the way across the lake, but I lacked
the fortitude at such a young age, & every time
I opened my eyes I’d see the rock succumb
to the surface—its ripples dying in its past.
I’ve only been back to the lake once since he passed—
I closed my eyes, skipped a rock & when I opened them
the rock kept going, but my grandpa wasn’t there
to prove his point, so I rooted for gravity
as it warred against inertia & closed my eyes again,
this time with no intention—skipping along
the shadows projected against the allegory of my eyelids
I saw my grandpa with all his grit & determination—
he was going all the way across the lake!
Once he made up his mind, that was the end of that.
Talking to the man after he’d dug his feet in
was like talking to stone, but when I opened my eyes
the memory of him succumbed to my consciousness
intermittently surfacing in the day-to-day
the ripples of the man interrupting my present.