I hold the pipe that once belonged to my grandfather
The smell of tobacco a glorious one
His pipe stays in a drawer now, by my mother’s side of the bed
And every so often maybe I will hold it, or maybe my mother will, or maybe one of my brothers
But it isn’t used anymore; it hasn’t been used in over fifteen years
Yet the smell is rich, buried into the wood
The smell is my grandfather
And he is close to me now
As close as secrets, like he is one, too
My lips purse on the sprouting end of the pipe
I am a friendly kiss from the same pair of lips my grandfather once spoke to
I feel strange to hold something that is so valuable to so few
But beautiful it is, to leave a life, continue past death, and remain with love intact
This exquisite moment, like one from long ago, tuning in, as a radio does, for the settings of my more modern time
Not my four year old self atop the mountain of a pair of knees
But remembering him with the thoughts of a child grown up
Prepped with knowledge and with reasons that mean that sadness needn’t be made from tears
I let the tobacco feelings tower high like smoke waving from tall chimneys
These are kind goodbyes that frequent often; not those of the final sort
And from the trappings of my senses, I vividly learn, that love has the ability to always stay grand.