This poem is for Ole (pronounced Oh-lee) my stepfather's dad, who passed away Thursday, Sept. 20, 1997. In memory of Olavi Gronroos.

Ole

There is a shadow on the wall.
It watches the people mill around.
It sees the tears and hears the grief.
And is silent.
Beyond touch,
Beyond words,
Beyond us.
Light shadow.
Cast by no man, yet man-shaped.
A spot on the wall a hair brighter than the rest.
Hard to see,
But easily felt.
I pass it now,
Briefly coming inside its sphere.
His sphere.
For a moment.

The soft rustle of flannel,
The creak of heavy soles,
The soft puff of breath not there
Fills my ears.
I am enveloped in the scent
Of weathered skin,
Tanned and slow baked
By wind and sun.
Oiled by time.
Spiced by the sea.
Old beer, made pleasant.
Mellowed and aged.
Made part of that indefinable quality,
Fisherman,
Husband,
Father,
Grandfather.
The prickle of grey stubble,
The rub of cotton shirts,
The touch of a hand,
Loose,
Wrinkled,
Callused,
From a lifetime of hard work.
Shown by the strength of the arm
Which tightens across my shoulders.
For a second.
Dark eyes,
Magnified by dusky glasses,
Gaze into mine.
The echo of a slow, rough voice,
Flavored by a language
I never heard,
Blows past my ears.
And is gone.

I have passed the shadow.
Is this what memory is?
New etched by loss,
It moves as we do.
Touching all.
Slow deliberate stride,
The remnant of life.
Never fade.