Inheritance

I drive the same roads Grandad drove for decades
Wake, every morning, in his old house

Stand in the same spot he did and look at the same ocean
Feel the same slow awe, the same swell of gratitude

The thought feels colossal: What am I supposed to do
with all of this remembering? He is everywhere and nowhere

Tawa for Sunday dinner, at the head of the table
easing a cork out of the grape juice

At the beach, on Christmas day during the heatwave
watching us in the water, holding the towels

On the lounge floor
his back slick with sweat, doing sit ups after his run

Hobbling lengths of the balcony
learning how to walk on a new hip

At the table, where I sit writing
the sun hot on his neck, reading the paper

Or watching as we run
barefoot and lanky, down to Aunt Lily’s house

In the food court or at church or somewhere between
Titahi Bay and Tawa with a grandchild, maybe me, in the back seat

Even on the other end of the phone, waiting to hear
And I think, what would Grandad say?

Thank you, thank you, I was so lucky
Look at all of the places I was loved