It's Still Life

Grandpa was autumn. That’s how I saw him. In his brown trousers and rusty-red shirt and a folded paper hat on his head that looked like an origami boat, and he’d stand there in his basement workshop sawing up some piece of driftwood, sawdust flying about like a blizzard. A lightbulb hung from a cord over his head, and the sunlight streaked as if the narrow window at ground level was squinting at us. I’d sit on a wooden barrel, and he’d try to convince me that socialism would save humanity. Him, looking autumn-dry and sun-scorched, and just a bit too fragile to be playing with power tools, and me, wearing something that Mum made from calico cotton on sale – meaning that she, me and my sister were all dressed alike – and hardly a day goes by that I don’t wonder if socialism might save the human race.

Crows in the wheat field
Scarecrows don’t scare anyone
Except maybe me

 
haibun Monday “A Room”