you told me you saw grandpa
the day after he died
you said he came to you in the woods
you said you must be going crazy

I thought grief had distracted you so
by accident you left open a door and
grandpa showed up
like a memory you could see
out in front of his old deer stand

or maybe a ghost
a real one
shuffling up through the pale brown leaves
in his thick wool pants
in his blaze orange jacket
with his gnarled oak branch hands

you covered your eyes and rubbed them red
until he was gone
for real gone

so I assume the same thing can happen to me but
I'm afraid

I assume you will lean into my bedroom
so early on a black morning in November
telling me to get my boots on
dress warm
it snowed

later you’ll be at the kitchen table
waiting while everyone sleeps
your hunting cap sits by your coffee cup and
you read yesterday’s paper
always reading
always whispering at the pages

our guns are outside in the truck and
the engine is running

then maybe I’ll see you next to me in the truck
headlights on the road to our land by the swamp
watching the snowy ditches and
the shadows all around us
you won’t say much
you know I don’t feel like talking

Mike Paulus has worked in local publishing for over two decades. He was an editor with Volume One Magazine for 14 years, where his "Rear End" column has appeared since 2004. He now works in marketing and digital services for the L.E. Phillips Memorial Public Library. He's a frequent contributor to Wisconsin Public Radio's Wisconsin Life program. Read more by and about Mike here.