r.d.b., 7 november 1929 - 31 july 2009.

My grandfather, my Cherokee patriarch, entered the next doorway, crossed the river far from here.
We are left in a dusky wake, a hole felt not acutely, but endlessly.

I do not know how to speak of these things--
of death, of the 60 years he and my Gramma shared,
of my Dad's restrained and tearless face.

"This is the first person I've loved who's died," my kid sister sobbed,
and she knew him eleven years less than I.

And oh, the stories. I do not want to forget the stories.
His knowledge of seemingly every road & river West of the Mississippi,
Our Mennonite grandfathers marrying our Indian grandmothers,
Walking the Trail of Tears, tarred & feathered & ran out of town.

His California, far-West roots, need for adventure, for space.
His curiosity, small-business schemes, invention-dreams,
smoky ambition and sorrow.
He invested in gold mining, read an astonishing number of books, traveled the world,
had a biker beard and ponytail, called my Dad every Sunday.

An orchard friend stumbled across paths with a black bear today, not 15 feet away,
and I wonder if maybe that is him,
still roaming our sweet earth.