Thomas Wood

I did not know him.
I only heard the
Apocrypha of his life.
Undocumented stories
And well-rubbed clichés.

He is gone

But his bones beckoned me.
They rest a few feet
Under the Arkansas soil
In a graveyard
Unfrequented by visitors
Or attendants.

I pulled the tangle

From his spire-like stone
And ran my hand across his name
Like it was braille.

He must have been more

Than his ephemera:
Planter
Soldier
Justice of the Peace
Husband
Father
Grandfather.
He was my Great Grandfather
But I missed Thomas by thirty years
And thought myself the poorer for it.

Looking at the one faded photo of him

Starring sternly at the lens

In a worn suit

His grey beard reaching to his thin belly
He appeared nothing like me.

He was a proud man

They said.
He went to his Confederate Reunion
Every year in Memphis.

Had we crossed paths in that conundrum

Of grandson meeting grandparent
In days of conflict  
He would have killed me
Or I him.
It is a misplaced emotion
But I have learned that the ones
With whom you most disagree
Are often the ones you most love.
There was nothing here to love
But bones and buttons
Yet I felt something of Thomas with me.

I will surely not return to his lonesome grave.

It is enough that I found it once.
But someday I will go to him.
We will forget to speak of war
Nor will we ask one another of politics
And allegiances.

I shrugged off a chill

Turning to my car.
I knew it was not Thomas
But the sudden absence of him
I felt.

I do not know that the dead look down

Nor that they care.
But neither do I know they do not.