With a toothless grin
And a twinkle
His eyes.
Offering forth
A small white
Paper bag
To us.
His grandchildren.
We
The older grandchildren
Knew better.
To say
"No thanks"
To his offer.
Within
That white package
Was coarsely cut
Chewing tobacco.
Although
I have forgotten
It's taste.
Still remember
The look
On my cousins' face
Of surprise
And disgust.
As they took
A shred or two
Into their mouth
And chewed.
A sad sigh
Escapes me.
As I realize
It has been 33 years
He last drew
A breath.
Passing away
On my birthday
February 2, 1984.
Grabbing
The long stale bag
Of coarse cut chewing tobacco
From my high boy dresser.
Tossing it
Into the garbage.
Bringing closure
To that part
Of my life.
Therisa © 2017
Author's Note: My 2800th written poem. My Opa like to tease us, the grandchildren, with his chewing tobacco, a ritual game that he played, whenever we would visit him and Oma, at their place. Never once, I did ever see him, spit out the tobacco, in the presence of us, grandchildren, which he bought, at the local co-op store, in Dunneville, Ontario.
