I obviously have way to many memories to count of my childhood. Recently though I have been thinking about one memory in particular. Well, not one memory exactly but a series of them. When Hayley and I were little we were always at our grandparents house (my dad's parents). We would go there every sunday, monday and friday. It was my favorite thing to do. The best part of these visits was when my grandpa would pull out his guitar. Hayley and I would put on long skirts from the dress-up box and grandpa would play songs and sing for us. We would sing along and dance and dance until we were too tired to keep going. I miss those days. I miss being so wild and carefee.
After one of these times of singing and dancing my grandpa wrote a poem for Hayley. She was probably three or four years old at the time. He recently found the poem and mailed it to her. This is it:
The Meaning of Life
I listen late into the night
for the music of the spheres.
I look religiously at faroff stars
trying to see what matters.
Starts seldom look back.
Last night I saw granddaughters
dancing, all giggle and wiggle,
hips and hair everywhere,
wild as seedling dandelions.
When I came in
Hayley stumbled toward me
arms opening, smile widening,
tongue tripping over "Grampa,"
"Grampa"-- liking me this moment
more than lively music.
Searching for my sould as far as Orion,
trying to distill happiness from starshine,
hungry for the life in constellated light,
I find myself sometimes illuminted
in the stars in Hayley's eyes.
I think this is the cutest poem and honestly I am super jealous that he wrote it about Hayley. This is me and my grandpa when I was little:
I miss being young.
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