My mother’s memories are what I now hear
of her beloved father she held oh so dear.

Taken from this earth before my birth time,
I failed to meet him—save memories of mine.

Now only a gravestone for me to relate
to a grandfather buried behind rusting gate.

So tell me, dear Mother, of all you once shared,
of good times, and bad times that cannot compare.

Those memories of childhood you had with him,
tell me, dear Mother, before they grow dim.
                    

Tamara Hillman
©2002