In 2006, I wrote the poem below about my grandfather for a history class assignment. Read more about his story here.

“Grandpa Never Speaks” 

Grandpa never speaks.
Not even in this country where free speech is our highest ideal. 

Not even in this protected nation where there are no Kaisers, no empires, no German officers. 

Not even in the company of his twin sister, who shares his haunting past. 

Not even in the inner sanctum of self.
Grandpa never speaks. 

He is like a paused clock
Arrested by the racheting of guns in Warsaw.
The Blitzkrieg bombing from the planes, 

The stench of corpses in the street,
And the oh too familiar sound of silence that ensues from the
Absence of his family. 

I gaze at the only picture I have of him while my family reiterates:
Where has his mind gone to?
And then quietly, I answer myself. 

He is on his Saddlebred, alone in the gray sunlight.
His skin glistens with sweat as he bathes in the shine.
An eternal quiet inhabits his heart like fallen snow on a bare forest. 

In his mind, this is where he is- still.
From the day he was taken away from his mother’s arms
To the day he will quietly die in the arms of no one,
He is alone on his horse, riding silently in the sunlight
While the child inside him sweeps. 

Grandpa never speaks.

Recently while visiting my mom and hearing her recount stories of her childhood, it suddenly clicked that perhaps my grandfather spoke a language I hadn’t built any fluency in until I learned how to transform my pain into beauty.

“The Language of the Stoics”

The child-size playhouse with
White scalloped fascia boards
Made to look like falling snow
Invited my mother’s imagination 
To stretch and expand and unfold 
Without ever knowing
The weight of oppressive constraints.

A tower of heavy, enormous lava rocks
Surrenders clear spring water into a
Bustling pond where the koi fish
Pucker and swim freely. 

A giant aviary secured by a high fence
With shading cloths to keep the
Colorful peacocks, the speckled pheasants,
The ivory fantail doves, and the reddish ducks
Cool, comforted, and able 
To flutter without fear. 

Is this the landscape of a man
Muted and stunted by a tormenting past
Or the creative, delicate musings
Of a human in deep conversation
With life’s fragility
And consciously making the choice 
Of quietly transforming pain
Into shared beauty?