Our family is a traveling family.
From memory emerges a picture
of my father's father.
I am about seven years old
laying my hand
carefully
on a red plush armchair
where this stony Colossus sits
puffing away smoke screen.
From behind steamed up gold-rimmed goggles
he stares through me
through a pale window
trying to reach indescribable wide vistas.
I never heard him speak
his posture said it all
he played a waiting game.

In former days - according to my mother -
he always used to muse about tomorrow
with broad gestures underlining massive plans.
His stirring imagination
playing on gorgeous Dwellings
Wealth and New Horizons just in reach
are legendary and regularly memorized.
Privately
we snigger
for somehow we understand
we understand this need for thrilling trimmings.

Our family is a family of restless roaming hearts.
Some build a boat just for themselves
for pilgrimage around the world.
But that boat
nearly ready
is readily disposed of
and they begin again
from scratch
with an old carcass
and oceans of time.
In their deepest thoughts
already miles away
while bodies still aground -
fixed and fastened
to that spot.
No one called them Sisyphus.