What went on before us? What dreams remain undone? What injustices were forgotten? What visions divined by our grandparents, and their grandparents, do we carry within ourselves?
Why do waves of melancholy, yet mellifluent, rise within me when I look on the face of my paternal grandfather and my mother?
What have I forgotten, cast aside, refused to learn? What have I unknowingly taken on?
What is unfolded within me and do I have the strength to let the unfolding carry on?
What discontent resides in me that reaches and seizes and stoops to possess?
Why, like an unasked question in a buried conversation, am I so afraid of being forgotten?
But then, why does a gypsy heart still beat within us? What awakening is pending for us at the end? To what end are creases in our grandfather’s weathered smiles?
Why do I feel pulled and lead into a grand universal love? And then, in a moment, why does scraping-by, getting-by, surviving, seem like life’s intent?
Does meaning inhere, or is it imposed? Or by imposition, is it somehow inherent?
Perhaps your mother’s warm clasp of your grandfather’s arm is all you need to know.