An Ofrenda In Type
There is a man
Who has the name of Kenneth Johnson.
A man who has the name of Grandfather
To myself, my cousins and brother
Who has the name dad
To my father and my aunts.
He is a kind man
He is warm,
He is smiling
He is grinning
He is laughing
In every place I see him
He loves his family, loves his children
Loves his wife, of decades married.
Loves his dog he found in the pumpkin patch,
Bawling its heart out as a puppy
He named the dog Pumpkin after that
He is the man who sees us every Christmas
Sees us in his RV travelling in-between
He is always quick to let us stay the night,
Whether it be in his RV when he comes to us
Or in his home where we come to him.
In any place we see him
He is always quick to crack a joke.
Why is breaking the law like a sick bird?
Because it is Ill -Eagle.
I always remember that one.
Like I remember his house
With the wood walls and the fireplace,
And the grass and the trees and the pool.
He loves his small Texas church,
To hear others tell it
His career is choir leader,
Which I think he doesn’t mind.
He repairs things with his hands
That his children watch to learn.
To teach to their own children,
Legacy after legacy.
I remember this much.
Memory is always in the present tense.
Forgetting is always in the past.
Energy cannot truly be destroyed.
And nobody is truly gone.
If we remember them as if they live.
This poem was written for my Grandfather’s funeral a few weeks ago, and it can be used under the Creative Commons-BY license as long as I, Thomas F. Johnson, am credited as its writer, and Kenneth Johnson is credited as the one who it was written for.