My grandpa was a writer. not the kind that uses flowery words but the kind who writes what he knows,

paragraphs filled with pain and joy and life and death that I'd try to read over his shoulder.  each one

had a dedication to a family member who would never even glance at a page. A row of those unread unopened books

has sat on my grandmother's shelf for three decades, the spines turning brittle, dust gathering around them.

she donated her CD collection to make room for more.