• There is scar there though no one can see,
    It may not lie on the skin for the world to notice.
    Though like a knife in the heart I remember.
    The scar pains me, as I lay crying and hopeless.

    White hair, blue eyes, and frail legs,
    Wheelchair and memories go hand in hand.
    A cut that will never heal;
    Deeper than anything seen.

    Remembering is dying a thousand times over.
    Every breath I breathe is drinking acid.
    Memories burn holes in me,
    Leaving nothing but a scar.

    I see the farm and all that was.
    And hear his slurred voice hard to understand.
    I can taste the bland nursing home food.
    I can smell the smell of old people do.
    I can feel his feeble body in my embrace.
    And I remember the look of his compassionate face.

    I am poked and prodded at,
    Without them knowing of my wounds.
    His face still so clear,
    And his voice, a newfound melody in my ears.

    I don’t want to hurt
    But, I don’t want to forget,
    That this scar that I carry with me
    Is the only reminder of my love for my grandfather.