But I'll never forget that feeling, as I turned slowly, not thinking about anything in particular ... perhaps about where my bus was, when it would pull up at that corner ... and there was this reflection in the store window, a reflection so much like the image of my grandfather, one I had carried in memory for so many years ...
I had never thought that I looked very much like him. Still, that first glance at the reflection was like seeing him again ... my reaction, as I saw it in that window, was like seeing him reach out for me ... again.
It didn't occur to me to rush home and write about the encounter. I wasn't writing poetry then. But, much later, when I began learning the practice of sitting in a quiet place, waiting for the words to come to me, these are the ones that made their presence known to me:
There was no mistaking the slope
of his shoulders, the shape
of his head; it was my grandfather
staring from the store window
while I stood in sprinkling rain
waiting for an afternoon bus.
I recalled how it was raining
when I had stood in uniform
beside his bed in that darkened
room, how I had wanted to say
things he could not hear, how I
had finally broken and wept.
And now, all these years later,
I watched as he reached his hand
toward me, the unwanted child,
we knew I had finally become him.
(part of my first collection of poetry, Chance of Rain, issued by Finishing Line Press, 2003)
Today's word: image