A Photograph of my Grandpo with a Horse

My Grandpo would come in, his clothes full of the

coolness of the potato cellar, the perfume of gasoline

on his hands and the morning’s coffee on his breath.

I inherited a photo of him in his Army uniform, he looks

fresh and well pressed, holding the reigns of a stuffed horse.

This must have been before he shipped out to fight in

the Pacific. He rarely told war stories, just one here

and there when I would spend the night at their house or while eating

a sandwich  in hunting camp. Maybe he didn’t think about

the war much. Maybe it was because his native tongue is

Spanish, and mine is English. I was never taught his and he

might not have been fluent in mine. I see my face in his, the nose

and that forehead, those eyes looking past the camera,

over the photographer’s head, past the walls, and the war that was

already being fought. His stare goes out for years and years,

back to mountains, to blue skies, back to mule deer,

hunting trips, to the ranch and horses, back to his

right hand tightly holding on to that horse.