Deka (Grandfather) by Masha Udensiva

The autumn leaves rustled softly
Below our sneakered feet
I held his hand, and felt the leather of his tattered sleeve
We walked up hill
And through the silhouettes of trees
The sky was gray
Above our thickly covered heads
We told a story
On that chilly afternoon
He started with a plot
And I continued through
And like that
Back and forth we went
Until our story reached some sort of end.
He was fifty then
And I was six, I think.