In the home where I grew up
A porcelain monk lived on the kitchen counter
Belly full of cookies
Admonishing us not to steal
Back when the house was full of sneaky fingers
I saw him enter the kitchen one day
30 years ago
Something clearly wrong
Part of him had vanished
Struggling for the words
To tell me that my grandpa was gone
His father
The pastor
The preacher
Thou Shalt Not Steal
Fiercely independent
Now 78
Yet socially engaged like a teenager
A calendar with no empty days
Erased by a global pandemic
A solitary castaway
In the island of his own home
In the socially distanced archipelago of our lives
The dispatches from neighboring islands indicate
That something was clearly wrong
Talking differently
Slurring words
Isolation taking its toll
Or a stroke of something worse?
We’ve both traveled the endless scenic roads all my life
His eyes always looking back at me from the rear-view mirror
Miles on our odometers until the math became meaningless
Never expecting to find him at the end of his road
Beneath these parting clouds
No longer driving
Not even moving
In his chair
Eyes rolled back
His face lifted to the heavens
Feet still on the ground
But getting lighter with each labored breath
911
Caught before he drifted off
3 more weeks in the hospital
Confined to his little room
A castaway once again
He’d build rafts out of medical equipment
And attempt to set sail to freedom
Always thwarted by the tide of nurses
As he floated down the corridors toward the exit
He’s back home now
In the house where he raised his children
But at any moment
I brace for the news
That he’s built a raft out of old family photos
And managed to sail away
We hope his sailing days are done for now
His final voyage a long way off
But when it finally comes
And his home is left as empty
As that porcelain monk
I will remember
That there is nothing
No illness
No hardship
Nor even a global pandemic
That can steal our joy
Or our hope
Or our love
So hold on to what matters
And say to the thieves that try to take it all away
Thou Shalt Not Steal
