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A possession of theirs you cannot give away? It isn’t old tools or a favorite hat, it’s the laughter tucked in every memory, the stories that still wander through my mind. It’s the smell of food drifting from the kitchen, the air warm with his quiet care and talk. It’s his voice, noticing the hat on my head, “Don’t hide your beautiful face, let yourself be seen.” It’s each honest word, spoken with care, and the feeling I’d never lose him, even now. It’s the pride in his eyes, fierce and gentle, and the comfort that, somehow, he’s still here with me.
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May 25
May 25, 2026 at 10:22 AM UTC
The Things That Stay
A possession of theirs you cannot give away? It isn’t old tools or a favorite hat, it’s the laughter tucked in every memory, the stories that still wander through my mind. It’s the smell of food drifting from the kitchen, the air warm with his quiet care and talk. It’s his voice, noticing the hat on my head, “Don’t hide your beautiful face, let yourself be seen.” It’s each honest word, spoken with care, and the feeling I’d never lose him, even now. It’s the pride in his eyes, fierce and gentle, and the comfort that, somehow, he’s still here with me.
I wrote this poem about my grandpa, who passed away 2 years ago, in response to tomorrow's prompt.
beepboopbop420
Written by
17/F/indiana
May 25
May 25, 2026 at 10:22 AM UTC
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