A poem about being at the park with my grandchildren who live 300 miles away.
| It is a beautiful summer morning,
the kind where those white, puffy clouds drift
lazily across a sparkling cerulean sky.
The sight of my grandchildren playing
in the park so happily serves to lift
my mood quite high; but I can only try
to forget that my wife and I later today
must return to our home 300 miles away.
I take a seat on a bench in the shade,
thinking how living so far away has made
us miss so much of our grandchildren’s lives.
I start to feel somewhat sorry for myself.
Upon the bench’s other end sits another man.
My grandkids squeal with delight. My heart thrives
on their glee! The man now begins to mutter to himself;
tears are rolling down his cheeks. “You’re luckier than
you know. Enjoy those grandchildren!” he tells me,
wiping his eyes. “It’s months between times when I see
them. I’m real unhappy about the situation, I fear.”
“My grandchildren were killed by a drunk driver last year.”
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