Grandfather

From the hundred words,
I make you, everyday.
I was born when you left,
after three months,
these, three of the hundred.

I imagine the arms, twisted,
holding the rope that falls deep,
the hush, your breath, then the hush,
the rope goes deep,
bound, eternal, I see it above.

A book in your hand,
and a chalk and few smiles,
morning, lessons, afternoon, lessons,
I see a blackboard, dust of white strewn over,
no one comes to my room.

I heard the arch of your house,
the fence that you built,
I went and saw and heard all of them,
they aren't enough, but
I say to my children, that's all. That's all.

Hundred words, not from you,
about you, about you,
I tell them,
we are not made of blood and sugar,
we are made of smiles and stories.