That ancestral glance

Today I mused on my artist grandpa, Martin. He ignored his sweat-class job and painted sparkling landscapes till fate pulled her usual Hello Cancer tricks. But that's neither here nor gone; what I most remember is a look. At age six I snuck in his bedroom, picked up his concertina and worked out some melodies. Something in my tyke tunes made him peek in, slit his eyes and smile lightly. With that one glance I was admitted into a cunning wolf pack dressed in vellum shirts and sharkskin night. Later I turned teen and got bongos, rubies, vodka lofts and gored euphoria-—what doubtless sparked me on was that appraising head tilt, that grin lit with cigar glow that gave me the blessing. Smile on, dead trickster, smile fucking on.