Family Ties

(One of the poems I submitted in my portfolio today.)

My tie was knotted tight against my neck
Seeming more like a noose to a boy my age.
A warm smell floated from the kitchen,
The women of the house with aprons over their dresses.
A cool breeze swept through the porch,
The men of the house taking in the fall day.
I was there too, though
Not quite a part of the ritual, not quite a man.

I took a seat next to my grandpa.
His aura was warm and comforting,
Oozing the love he had shared with so many.
He sat there quietly, taking in the scene,
Collecting his thoughts, waiting to speak.
He said few words now, but I could still
Remember the stories he used to tell.
Sitting in his presence, they flooded out of him.

His eyes spoke of the lands he had seen
But only one could tell the story.
The other moved but said nothing.
It was glass, and instead told one story.
His wrinkled, tough hands told
The rest of the stories from his working days,
His feet tapped on the porch,
Almost as if he was surveying his work decades later.
His skillful hands built this place,
And lovingly he raised seven of his own here.

His gaze met mine,
I was embarrassed,
But he slowly reached down, adjusted my tie
Then patted my head as I smiled up at him.
I looked from him to my own father,
Gazing at the unmistakable resemblance
Remembering I have always looked like my dad.
He was the tie that connected me to my grandpa.
I felt like I was right where I was supposed to be.