To my oldest first love,

When I first got to know you I told myself that you were the man of my dreams.

We were star crossed lovers you and I.

In this life time you were made to be my father, so phenomenal God had to add grand to make it suitable enough to characterize you.

Each of your nick names characterizing you even further.

Mine for you Paw explaining the impression you left- when you left. Inviting me into these poetic eyes I like to think you personally donated them to me.

I only hope to leave as big of a print on others as you left on me.

I wish we could go back to those warm morning with the hint of pancakes, grits, eggs, bacon and butter biscuits resonating on our tongues

Me swinging on the wooden bench, you counting all the fish

Sprawled across the porch captured by the hawk himself earlier that morn.

I pray the next time my eyes meet those mahogany blue trimmed irises of yours we will be in a place where time does not exist.

A place where malignant tumors aren’t prohibiting your speech

But just in case I have brought along this hammer to break every clock and *sign* my hands to talk with you.

I have so much to tell you.

A part of me wants to spill all the beans while the other part of me wants to just sit and look into those glorious eyes. Look into that glorious soul of yours.

Reach into your past and find what caused this horrible termination of your position as my grandfather, or to reach into the future and grasp that small test tube serum that could cure your wife’s broken heart.

But I know I cannot, so I stand here each of my ten toes sunk into the golden sand, hands spread, arms wide allowing the sun to pour a new  pigment in every pore.

It is here where I can feel you the most, the sound waves of your heart crashing against mine becoming me to live life as you had.

Your imprint is forever engraved on my soul.

And when they ask how such a small girl can roar so loud I will tell them I am part lion, paw prints trailing as I go.

(In memory of Esma Robert Hawkins)