Lying face-up,
The tears roll from my eyes
Over to the cartilage protrusion:

When he smiled, my grandfather’s eyes
Crinkled to my ears,
Much like fire crackles.

Yet I no longer see or hear him, nor the tears,
From duct to canal –
I feel them:
He, the comfort of garden-grown verbena and a chimney-front childhood,
They, the cool weight of what was falling all these years,
What chagrin says we shall no longer clutch –
Even tears revert to dust

Published by Johanne Boulat

Johanne Boulat was born in French-speaking Switzerland, where she lives again now, but she grew up under the resplendent California sun. For 21 years she basked in the spirit of the Wilderness, which she discovered on hiking as well as literary paths. She received her Bachelor of Science in Animal Biology from the University of California, Davis in 2012 and since then has worked as a scientific field aid, a translator, a sales specialist, and a running coach. In 2018, she completed her master’s degree in English Literature at the University of Lausanne in Switzerland. She now teaches English and Science at a local elementary school and dedicates her free time to the three “R”s: Running, Reading, and Writing.

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