for my grandfather
by Shantae Stewart
You remind me of purple sunsets, half-baked cookies and my childhood swings on mango trees.
You have honey in your eyes, chicken feed instead of money in your pockets and a river of love flowing through the creaks and cracks of your veins.
My half-adult, half-childish mind tells me you smell like the earth…
you smell like what God made man from, and your wrinkles tell the story of what man was forced to become.
You remind me of that dream I thought I had forgotten, the lisp I thought I had outgrown, kerosene lamps and cedar wood.
You remind me of home
And of the ocean on a cool summer’s eve racing to kiss a purple sunset.