Field of Weeds

His perpetual smile has made imprint on my heart.
His eyes are an impossible art
But yet he still remembers the start.

He alone is the key to a school girls pleated knee memory.
The ones she herself cannot even remember but he has seen a century.

His tender body is as soft and worn as my grandmother’s hand.
He was once as green as the first shoot of a flower poking the land.

His pants are the black as the never ending supply of olives we have in our fridge.
He alone is the bridge
the bridge to the past
the bridge to the future.
Where we will continue to make our steps together.

He lay like a flower in a field of weeds, recounted my father.
I hardly remember much else from that moment on with him,
I still sometimes see my vision tunnelling when I look at him like that fateful day.

He originally was used as an identification tag that hung from my bag.
But as the days swelled into weeks to months to years to a decade he became more than that.

He became an innate part of me,
while I sometimes was unware of his constant existence he was a crucial part of me that I could not live with out.