Grandpa'a Shrine

Grandpa's Shrine

The old guitar, in a battered case , held a special place for him.
It was a shrine to yesterday and memories growing dim.
I watched my grandpa pick it up as if it were made of gold.
And from his weary lips came songs of stories never told.

He always looked at it and touched it before he began to play.
A ritual never forgotten done in such a gentle way.
It brought a smile to his lips as he began to sing.
Who'd think there were such memories stored up in that old thing.

He sang of cowboys, movin' on from one place to another.
Of cattle rides and moonlit nights, and, of course, he sang of mother.
His crooked fingers strummed out tunes as he sang song after song.
I used to think he made them up as he went along.

I sat for hours at his knee and listened so content.
For every word from that quivering voice I knew he really meant.
He seemed so far away as he sang and played each tune.
I wasn't sure sometimes he knew I was in the room.

It was a time of peace for him and as he looked into my eyes.
He said, "This will be your s someday and you must realize.
The value of the little things just like this piece of wood.
You can't replace with somethin' new and you never should."

He was teaching me to know him and the life he'd lived so proud.
He could never be remembered as a face just in the crowd.
He had an inner spirit I now know and understand.
I wish I would have told him then he was the greatest man.

He's passed on now and, yes, I have kept that old guitar.
It sits in its battered case though from me never very far.
I pick it up from time to time, look at it and touch it so gently.
Who knew one day it would become a shrine to him for me.

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