Grandmother was a young girl
when an ancestor visited her.
A gentle man from her third heritage
with a wooden flute in hand
played a pleasing tune
a soothing sound
to which she gently swayed.
She asked him where he’d come from,
and how he found his way,
He said a butterfly mapped the route
and he followed the nightingale’s song
but most of all it was the love
that still lived in our home.
His voice faded slowly away
and he suddenly disappeared
as mysteriously as he came.
The sun shone through
and she awoke
and nothing was ever the same.
Grandmother always said she’d hear
the flute in the distance every now and then.
Some days she’d secretly hoped he visit her again.
The day she passed I heard the flute
and a songbird sing softly in my ear.
I knew then everything would be fine.
Because love is what it is
and it lives right here with me.
