The Fish are Jumping

I never saw them.
My Grandfather knew this, so everytime
he would swing his great auburn arm
and point--"Look!"
Snap my head like an antelope
to the stern: only ripples on the sleepy surface.
Really, Grandpa´s steely insistence to point out every fish
slowly built a stalactite of frustration and doubt
from my windpipe to solar plexus.
But even then I knew that his was an iron will,
fired in the crucible of the Great War,
for his children and their´s
to taste only the fresh breeze of the Pacific Northwest.
But my mother got the folded flag when I was four
with the coffin that can´t be opened.
I had to drink ever deeper of the silent wooded lakes
for all three of us.
When I knew he was looking, I´d close my eyes and mouth
breathe in as long and loud as 12 year olds can,
imgagining tiny spruce and redwoods taking seed in my chest,
roots through my lungs, sprouting between ribs,
and finally raise my gaze to meet his
smile and endless eyes, alive
with the happier shade of sadness.