Windows

In memory of Peter Draugalis Sr. (June 29, 1895 ~ September 10, 1959)

When I was eleven,
my upstairs bedroom was small,
but my responsibility was large.

I had to pray hard every day
for the cancer to go away
from my grandpa,
who had to go away
to a special hospital
in Ann Arbor
for those mysterious
cobalt treatments. 

He had no windows
in his hospital room.
I didn't think this was fair
for a man who loved
to be outdoors,
for a man who loved
to hunt and fish,

for a man I loved
when he let me hunt
between himself and my dad.

They would send me
into brush piles,
down the swales,
through briers and brambles.

If I "jumped a rabbit",
one of them would fire his shotgun.
Grandpa carried a 20-gauge.
Dad had the stronger 12-gauge.

I longed to hear that gunshot
again in October;
only a month away.

As I stared out my window,
I studied the east fencerow,
tangled with thick brush;
sumac and saplings
hung with wild grapevines,
maybe a rabbit hiding
in the dense briers that
curled along the ground.

I watched out my window
as dusk arrived.
I listened out my window
as a whip-poor-will
sang his melancholy song.

I prayed out my window:
"Please God, give Grandpa
a little more time."

© 2020 Richard Havenga

Endnote: 

Today, in my upstairs bedroom, I have two shotguns: a 12 gauge, and a 20 gauge.