No one ever said just how
Pinney and I were related
But my best guess is that
He was the most shadowy
Of my grandfather's brothers --
The one who had to return
For folk to notice he'd left.
Somehow, questions about him
Weren't really answered except
"Who is that?" “Pinney, of course.”
There is nothing sinister
In my memories of him. Quiet.
Small. Grey. Battered. A ghost
Who'd crept into a family
Without the heart to evict him.
If I'd ever demanded my mother
Tell three stories about Pinney
The third would've made him real
Or more than real, given him a voice
To fix an aching heart or
The very saddest eyes in the world.
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