Bonus Poem: What My Grandson Was Looking At

 

I want to know

what my grandson 

was looking at,

as he lay on his back, 

after awakening

from a too-short nap

for a four-month old.

 

I walked in quietly

and squatted down,

and he was on his back,

looking up—

to my mind, at least,

at just the ceiling—

but every once in a while

cracking a big smile.

 

Now, I know that

he smiles in response to

someone else’s smiling.

(I also know that he 

had already passed gas.)

So who was up there,

whom my adult vision 

simply could not see?

 

I’m pretty sure 

that this babe,

uncluttered by the possible,

saw, when visited, 

perhaps my mother

or my wife’s mother—

his great grandmothers,

or my father

or my wife’s father—

his great grandfathers,

or his paternal grandmother, 

or his great uncle,

or any number of other people 

who might have loved him, 

some of whom also loved me,

cracking their own smiles.

 

Go ahead,

tell me I’m delusional.

But I was there. 

I’ll fight to the death

to tell you I’m right. 

 

Scott L. Barton