Solitude

 

Solitude

My great-grandfather came from the East

one summer.

He came alone to look at the land.

He kept seeing it in his dreams, they say:

acres and acres of green rolling hills,

a little forest and a meadow 

and an oak tree.

When I die, bury me here, he said,

under this mighty oak, but beware,

leave no mark on my grave, for I need

my solitude.

The following summer, they all came.

His wife brought a tiny pear tree.

She carried it in her arms like a baby.

They built a small house and next to it

the pear tree grew.

It grew tall and it grew strong.

And the fruit of that tree was sweet and juicy.

And when he died, they buried him there

under that mighty oak and they

left no mark on his grave, so that he could have 

his solitude.

And my grandfather moved away to the valley.

He built his house by the river.

The river was fast and when it rained

it entered the house and took away

all their memories

until they forgot their old father

and their old house and the grave.

Yet, in their dreams they saw the pear tree

still growing tall.

No one could find the meadow or the grave,

nor did they know where the pear tree grew.

My father went away to the city.

The memories of his childhood and his youth 

faded away.

Then one day, he had the dream:

a meadow and a pear tree

and an oak and under it

his grandfather’s grave.

He asked around, but no one remembered.

He searched for years and then one day

he brought me with him.

And there it was, before our eyes:

the meadow and the pear tree

and the oak and a mound of grass

And he stood under the oak and spoke

to his grandpa, who'd grown tired 

of solitude.

GloPoWriMo Day 15