jack was old before I was young,
frail before I could walk
jack went up a hill
and he didn’t talk about the rest

jack taped old movies;
paused the breaks
numbered and listed them, alphabetically
jack ate mints, covered in lint
from his pocket.

jack sat me on his knee and tickled
my tummy, and feet
he would laugh when I laughed,
a hiss of air like a smokers cough
(he smoked once too)

jack had a drawer full of old drawings
paper thin like tissues
hidden away upstairs
round faces, and perfect sunsets

jack tumbled down once
a long time ago
and slept for weeks
and no one is sure why

it’s spring now,
sweat beginning to stick on skin
the procession ambles past
and I wonder if they knew
the boy who went away,
or the old man who came back

I think of jack.