She will finish her studies and be able to choose
She will be chosen and she will also choose
By then I will be deep in some cavern of water
oblivious as to whom she wants and whom she gets
I will be remembered
or perhaps largely forgotten

My name will not evoke fond memories
on her wedding anniversary
Nor will she be reminded of me on the anniversary of my death
Sometimes I will pop up in conversation
“How good papa was . . . but how irritable he’d become . . .
towards the end . . .”
Her daughter may find her grandfather’s photograph
among her broken toys
But who will tell her how much
the pictures leave out in her grandfather’s life
It was a long desolate road and he was drenched in sweat
An endless road without a turn
and not a soul in sight
Who will tell that it took just forty-eight years
for him to find peace

She will try to explain it to the man as best she can
“Papa was no fool . . . what if he wrote poetry . . .
Certain things in life are more important
Even if he didn’t prove a success
A few fragmentary phrases can have more impact than an epic . . .”

Sometimes while dusting
her hand may brush against
one of his closed books.