Quinlan Arrowheads

I wrote this about my mom's dad... or what I remember about him, anyway. He died when I was a little girl. 

Quinlan Arrowheads

Cigarette packs
 and Little Debbie snacks
And Roast on the stove.

Hands like leather
around the wheel
Of the pickup that he drove.

Denim overalls
six feet tall
A story on his breath.

Digging arrowheads
out from old barn sheds
Up until the day of his death.

Sipping tea
from a mason jar
On a porch in July.

He called her Hun
while standing in the sun
his leathered hand shield his eye.

He said look here
this is rare
an arrowhead found in the garden.

A wooden pipe
put to his lips
His deep voice begged a’ pardon.

At dinner a heart attack
left her with a paper sack
holding wood carvings in a box.

For his children he left nothing
but his stories
and Ancient Indian rocks.