The hearty laugh of my dead aunt
rings in my granddaughter's ears.
My grandfather strikes
the hot iron
and my son hears the ring.
Young cousins are bridged
to long ago family feasts.
Each entry in the
family Bible becomes real.
Former neighbors,
long gone,
are in our conversations.
The tradition of talk
to the past is done.
Together the family bridges
the grave gap.
Family traits are seen
in the grandchildren
who will forever know
the tie to those who have passed.
All this and more
is my father reminding us
that the dead are with us
as long as we remember.
He is a special reminder
with so much to remember.
He can see his father's amazement
at the first cars
and airplanes.
He can remember the person
represented by each tombstone.
No plastic flowers for this one.
A special toast on Saint Patrick's Day
for that one.
Scandal long ago shed,
each character cleansed by time.
The rememberer stands
guard against time.
Who will remember
when he is gone?
My aunt's laugh
is now my grandaughter's responsibility.
The sound of the forge
will long be a part of my son.
But I am the oldest
and have the responsibility
to keep the dead remembered and ageless.
I have to take my father's place.
I must keep his traditions.
I must serve the past
to make those gone
sit at my table.
Just as my father before me.
Time passes so fast
even for the dead.