The Postcard lived on

A typical afternoon
I’m dusting in the living room
And Grandpa’s bookshelf
decorated with old books
to me they are uninteresting
Now is the time for cleaning

Crap, crap, crap!
throw it all
and make way for the new
but stop,
what is it peeping through the books?

A postcard
it’s painting a picture
the old, wrinkled face in my head
sitting right here
near the window
bathing in the sunshine
on his rocking chair
and yes that scent of his presence.

My grandpa
blown away by the strong winds
of death
but his postcard stayed
just this piece of paper
speaking that he once owned this place
this postcard lived
and he died years ago

And I see the power of writing
words live on
even when we are gone
so much I can connect
with this little material
but he is no more
the postcard says it all

feels like he will enter
right through the front door
and scold for touching his jewels

I lift my eye
and see all these pale books
they are waiting for him
for his one touch
that will revive them all

But no, he is long gone
only the postcard lived on.

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