I used to sit on the cold floor in that den.
I was so young then, it didn’t bother,
But you are my grandfather,
And your name was Ken.

Now that I’ve grown, I’m not quite as bold.
Now that you’ve gone, I feel a little cold.
Now that I look back, I’ve got a little shatter,
Because what’s gone is what does matter.

I often try to imagine what it would be like
If you were still around.
I don’t think you even got to see me ride a bike.
If you had, maybe I wouldn’t be so tightly bound.

But since you’re gone, I feel a Hollow.
There’s a space in my heart that has been torn.
Your absence is as painstaking as a thorn
A thorn dug so deep into my side that I’m leaking marrow.

I don’t know how Granma does it.
She can talk about you as easy as pulling out a chair to sit.
But even when I’m only listening,
I still have a tear in my eye a-glistening.

I’m not sure why I feel so strongly this way.
Granma once said we might have known each other in an earlier life.
But ever since you died that one May,
This hollow has been whittling away at me like a knife.

I can’t explain that Hollow inside my heart,
But, boy, can it ever smart!
It’ll make its presence known,
And over the years, my Hollow has grown.

It’ll make a new chip
And make me choke.
And every Thanksgiving trip,
I can feel each new blade stroke.