I inherit the tome of your life nearly complete.
The first pages well-worn and traveled by your daughters,
Now yellowing and stiffening before the onslaught of grandchildren.

The middle is clean and organized,
The pages laid out in the brick of a self-built home,
The words of 'wife' and 'child' recorded with care and detail.

As the chapters progress, your handwriting turns.
Tidy inscriptions widen and loop, and mastery becomes primitive.
In the mire of your later stories I am lost, as - it seems - you are.
It is hard to discern the fact from the fiction,
The present moments from the conjured memories.

In the final pages, there is a remarkable renaissance.
You shed the child's scrawl and the ******'s jargon,
And the master stands before us once more.
You write of pain, of struggle, of fear,
And the pages crack and fall out.

Closing the book and adding it to the shelf,
Your story is not yet ended.
All around are novels of lives,
And they take from yours their inspiration.

There are four novels of daughters, and four of their husbands
Twelve of grandchildren, six of their spouses
Thirteen of great grandchildren, and three to be delivered.

There are books of neighbors, books of friends,
Pamphlets of patrons, and journals of soldiers.

Each a part of your story, each a part of the library
Each magnificent, and each unique.
And in the center, care-worn and complete,
Is you, grandfather.