My grandpa never talks of Burma,
finds it hard to describe without
a poet’s tongue. Or he feels
the need to keep that past past.
He falls in love with traveling,
a basement full of souvenirs and
board games to keep us grandkids busy.
After the funeral, I am too young to
understand such keepsakes, sequined
sombrero, embroidered kimonos. I
dream he’s finally ready to tell me
what it’s like to go places so he gets
out the Risk board and put pieces
on places he’s been. He starts to talk 
about the war he joined, when his voice
is stolen again by the stroke that
crushed him.  And he tries
and he tries, but the words don’t come
I wake up telling him, Don’t worry.
I’ll get there.