Sweet. Woody. Smokey. Lint.
That is how he always smelled. 
Each visit ended with a hug
That got looser and bonier
Until it got tight and shaky,
Clinging to small moments
As time pulled at the hems of his khakis.

My grandpa told me 
He had dreams about touring the universe
In a plastic lawn chair.
He’d grip the sun-beaten armrests
As the chair maneuvered through planets
And soared through the star-spotted abyss.

My grandpa told me
Two men came to his family’s small home
And told them they had 30 minutes to pack 
Everything they wanted to bring to the camps
Because they were Japanese
And they were dangerous.

My grandpa told me
You should always eat buckwheat noodles
Because they’re good for your heart.

My grandpa told me 
After he stated his name
The farm owner said, “That’s too hard. I’m just gonna call you Dickey.”

My grandpa told me
To “go on” and join the dancing women 
At the Obon Festival 
Who moved in undulating circles 
In white silk kimonos 
Embroidered with red flowers.

My grandpa told me
He found his younger sister
Lying half-drowned, face-down in a drainage ditch
On the edge of the farm in Arkansas.

My grandpa told me 
To wait. 
As I stood on a small beach on Lake Hodges 
With a plastic, neon purple fishing rod
And learned to love fishing
For the waiting. 

My grandpa told me, 
“You don’t let anyone push you around, okay? 
Be tough.
Okay?”
And clutched me to his disappearing frame.

I said “Okay.”
Not knowing that bent reflections of his past
Had allowed him to see the future.