Starting this blog has brought me so much joy, especially through the wonderful people I have met along the way. I love discovering the creative writing, heartfelt stories, and clever play on words shared by fellow bloggers. Today, I am honored to share Katie’s beautiful poem about her grandfather. It is touching, sincere, and a loving tribute to his life and memory. Please visit and follow Katie at A Virginia Writer’s Diary. I know you will enjoy her creativity and unique perspective as much as I have.
Here is Katie’s post:
I think this might have been the first poem I ever posted on the blog. I didn’t have a lot of followers then, and I don’t know that it’s gotten a lot of attention. I’m happy to have an opportunity to share it again, thanks to Annie at Tales of a Family, who posted a writing prompt for this week “inviting us to remember the men who shaped our lives – not always through grand speeches or big moments, but through the quiet lessons they lived every day.”
I’ve talked about my grandfather, James, in the collaboration Annie and I have been working on, about how his death prompted me to start my creative journey. But his life inspired me, too. He worked hard, he fought in World War II and lost friends doing it, he loved and supported his family (his wife, my beautiful grandmother and his six children), and he enjoyed the small, quiet moments you can carve out in a busy, not always easy life. He loved fishing, sitting on the porch swing, making music. He taught me to love those moments, too.
So here’s a poem for him, a memory and an elegy, that I’m grateful to revisit, called “My Grandfather’s Guitar.”
My grandfather’s guitar sits in a corner of my study untouched, gathering dust. When I was young and he was already old, it could pull notes straight from the air through his fingers and into my ears. I can hear them, though he is gone and his instrument’s gone quiet. When I was young, not even ten, he’d pick it up and start to play and then I’d go still, stuck to one spot until he was done. My grandfather’s guitar in his hands made magic, but I was too young to understand that music is magic made real for a moment. A fret and a twang and he’d made something that didn’t exist before and wouldn’t again. I sometimes imagine myself back there, wearing muddy tennis shoes with tangled hair, just listening. I can hear it, but no song ever sounds the same twice.
Anne Bradstreet, my 8x great-grandmother, holds a remarkable place in American literary history. Born Anne Dudley in England in 1612, she became one of the most important early English poets in North America and the first published writer in England’s North American colonies. As a Puritan wife, mother of eight, scholar, and poet, she balanced family life, faith, hardship, illness, and the challenges of colonial New England while still finding time to write. Her poetry reflected love, motherhood, grief, devotion, and strength, making her voice both deeply personal and historically powerful. More than three centuries later, Anne Bradstreet’s words still remind us that women’s stories have always mattered.
Wearing her new eyewear that conveniently turned dark in sunlight, Mandy briefly admired herself in the rear view mirror. “Not bad, ole gal,” she said, turning her head first to the left and then to the right. Smiling, she rolled down the windows and opened the moonroof. Before leaving the parking lot, Mandy turned on her playlist. Once she hit the open road, she began belting out the tunes, which currently featured one of her all-time favorites, Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams.”
Like a heartbeat drives you mad
In the stillness of remembering what you had
And what you lost
And what you had
Ooh, what you lost..
Single by choice, the woman enjoyed her life. She had distinguished experience, or as she liked to say, she was “chronologically gifted.” She still felt youthful in all the ways that mattered. She still danced while vacuuming, believed stretchy pants were athletic wear, and could still keep up with the grandkids—well, on most days anyway. In her mind, she was about thirty-two on a good day and maybe thirty-five on a tired one. Still, she avoided mirrors strategically—not intentionally, just…well, selectively.
She was on her way home from picking up her new prescription glasses, which she purchased after noticing that restaurant menus were now printed in “ant font.” Reading had become a chore as she held books at arm’s length, although that didn’t help at all. Reading the daily news was next to impossible, and driving had also become a challenge when she couldn’t make out exit or street signs. She knew it was time to give up readers and invest in prescription eyewear. Her optometrist cheerfully announced that her new glasses would make everything clearer. Mandy felt optimistic and enlightened—and still thirty-two. On the way home, she stopped at her favorite café for lunch, thrilled she could actually read the menu. To celebrate her newfound eyesight, she also ordered a chocolate mousse, promising herself she would swim extra laps tomorrow.
Once she arrived home and pulled into the driveway, she rushed inside. Her newfound eyesight felt invigorating. She grabbed a book that she had shoved aside because it was too difficult to read. Settling into her favorite chair, she sighed happily as the words came into focus. Oh, how she had missed this luxury! The hours flew by, and she began to yawn. Laughing, she told herself she could read some more tomorrow as she scurried into her bedroom to change into her PJs for the night.
Walking into the bathroom, she took off her glasses to wash her face and begin her nighttime care routine. Once she lathered on the night cream, she put on her glasses, looked in the mirror, and froze. She leaned in closer, pulled back, and then leaned in again. Her thoughts racing, she blurted out, “Who is that woman? Why does she look tired? What happened to my neck? Those aren’t laugh lines. Those are full comedy specials!
Her concern shifted immediately to the glasses. Clearly, they were defective or, at the very least, evil. Sighing, she removed them, and instantly, she looked ten years younger. When she put them back on, she screamed, “Oh no, she’s back!”
She hurried from the bathroom with her hand held to the mirror. Sitting slowly on her bed, bathed in soft lamplight, she noticed her features looked less tragic in this light. Next, she pulled a lighter from the nightstand, lit a candle, and turned off the lamp. In candlelight, she even looked acceptable. “Great,” she muttered, “I will now live the life of a vampire, only leaving the house once the sun sets.”
Suddenly, she didn’t even feel like thirty-five; depressed, she felt more like fifty.
Stumbling into the kitchen, she pulled a bottle of peachcato from the fridge and her favorite wine glass from the cabinet, pouring herself a hefty drink. Walking to the living room, she turned on a lamp by her favorite chair, placed the glass on a coaster on the end table, and walked to the fireplace. Once she switched on the glowing fire, she stared at it sadly, wondering exactly where all the years had gone. It didn’t seem that long ago when her daughter was small. Sighing, she returned to her chair, reclined, and sipped her wine as her thoughts wandered.
When did life change? When did she start warming up to just go dancing? When was the last night she slept without risking injury? “Hmm. Those years didn’t just disappear; they accumulated quietly while you were busy living.” Her realization didn’t ease her frustrations. “So much for aging gracefully,” she whined.
Standing up from her chair, she rushed to her room, grabbed her hand mirror, and then settled back into her chair. She wanted to inspect the “old” woman again. Holding the mirror, she studied her face and decided to be easy on herself and find some good. She noticed she had kind eyes and a great smile. Those laugh lines proved she enjoyed her life. She lived and had great stories. “Well…she’s not so bad.”
Finally, reality settled in, and she found a compromise. She would wear those darn glasses but remove them when she unexpectedly passed a mirror. She would still sing in the car and dance while vacuuming. She decided she still felt like she was thirty-two on the inside. After she smiled at her reflection, she slowly replied, “You may have aged, old woman, but fortunately, I have not!”
Writing Prompt: Today’s prompt is to write about someone looking into a mirror.
But let me start from the beginning. I came from a long line of pack rats that kept things, ya know, for just “in case.” When I moved to my little house over 20 years ago, I downsized a lot. I had a garage sale and gave things away. But I still had boxes tucked away after my move. In over twenty years, I am ashamed to say I have never opened those boxes. I meant to, but my busy life kept me from the dark corners of my little basement.
Some of the items were from my daughter’s childhood, things she adamantly stated that “she did not want.” All these years later, she and her daughters are glad that I kept her childhood mementos. So the rest of her things will finally be cleared from my basement storage.
But I also have boxes full of memories that I could not squeeze into my smaller home. Long ago gifts from my childhood; favored toys, cherished items passed down from one mother to the next. Those are the items that tug at my heartstrings. I had planned to divide the items among my granddaughters and my niece, and one day I will.
But did I mention my garage? Oy! Old teaching materials, patio furniture that needs refinishing, an iron bedstand that needs painting, an old lawn mower that needs to be repaired, “new” tiles for my kitchen and bathroom floors, and the list goes on.
Did I mention my summertime plans? I believe it’s time to have another garage sale!
For today’s prompt, write a foolish poem. The poem could be about a fool, about being fooled, about fooling someone, or whatever other foolish direction you wish to take it.
With the theme of hot summer nights, what could be better than a poem entitled “Sizzle.” Her use of imagery makes her poem come alive. Please take a moment to read this poem by KTC. Sizzle
