My grandpa had a hallway in his head with doors
marked hitches, bowlines, bights, and bends.
To him ropes weren’t ropes and kids weren’t kids;
ropes were lines and kids were mates.  How I
loved the soothing sound of mate.

“Here’s how you tie a bowline, Mate.
Over, under, around, and through.”
His formulas for knots were always entwined
with lessons—which knots were meant to
slip or hold, to be untied or tied.  His leathery fingers
flowed and stories bore me to exotic places
as mats, fish nets, and Turk’s heads knots
flowered before me. 

I will never forget his patience 
as he taught me how to braid. The endless hours
I enjoyed crafting key rings and lanyards. If anyone
showed a passing interest, soon they had a gift.

Most of all, I learned the value of a line.
To him a flawless line was a tool
never to be wasted. There were no Gordian
knots, no tangles beyond a keen eye and time.
I suppose that’s why he was married 57 years,
and why he never threw a tangled line away.
                        

My Grandpa was like Moses to me,
he had a snakey staff. 
It was carved and painted 
as a diamondback.
It stood in the dark den corner
trapped behind the door,
until Grandpa gripped it safely
behind the head
and took it on his walk.  I thought
its menacing wooden tongue alive,
red-flicking when I stared eye
to sequined eye. My first brave act
was running my fingers lightly down
its patterned back. Grandpa cupped my
hand in his behind its head.
We walked that snake between us
clicking concrete
all the way around the block.