ANCESTORS

A Poem for the Family Historian

I have extended my hand just as far as it will reach

And I fix my gaze intently on the impenetrable haze

Why do I reach for a hand that I could never hope to receive

And why do I look for the gaze that will never be returned

In the haze we call time the days of ones life disappear

All of the passions we hold so dear are lost with the passing years

When our time has passed only memories remain

And they belong not to us, but to the people we knew

As more time passes by memories begin to yellow and fade

As does the face of the person we knew

And the day will come when even the memories will die

With the very last person who knew you alive

And there you are left with the fragments and clues

Of a person you never knew

And you reach out your hand just as far as you can

For you are of them, and they remain a part of you

Stephen J. Hartzell December 17, 1995