Peter LaBerge writes tenderly about his grandfather and the mysterious powers that young boys sometimes attribute to their elders.
—
Breaking Open
My grandfather was always
skilled at cracking them.
The nuts, snapping and
folding apart like hands
after prayer, whirled
from between his fingers
in a matter of seconds.
I was never quite as fast.
My fingers, still unmarked,
smooth, clumsy.
They dug into the shells,
pried against the edges.
Soon my fingertips creased
themselves, wrinkled inward
from the toughness.
I always snuck him the tightest ones,
unripe ones, enclosed with shyness.
I didn’t believe they would ever
open for anybody, not even him.
Yet, I was never surprised when
their lids lifted around the tug
of his strength—as, for the first
time, he let each one see.
***
Previously published in The Newport Review
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