Mining Treasures in a Cardboard Storage Box

Granpa, I stand knee-deep in flood waters

That tried to wash away

My memories of you,

But these treasures in a 

Cardboard storage box

I have recovered.

Granpa, silly man,

Wearing a wig

While infant hands held onto you.

Granpa, your handwriting

Looks exactly like mine,

Was it you who trained the pen in my hand? 

               

                                                  

Granpa, an old yellowed newspaper

Proclaims you're a survivor

Of a mine explosion that killed 18 others.

             

Granpa, here's the story

I wrote about that for a

creative writing class I never finished.

              

Granpa, I hate mines, but I love you, a miner.

I hate the mine that put the cancer in you.

In your lungs, the second suffocation.

Granpa, a stepfather I thought never loved me, hugged me

When he had to be the one to bear the news,

But you are the man who first took my heart.

Though parts of you remain an enigma

Like why you loved to watch the bullfights that made me cry

And why you wore that silly wig.