Hanging on my wall so straight and shiny
is the picture they all tell me all about.
A baby in an old, bearded man's arm
so tiny, all wrapped up in a blanket.
They tell me that tiny baby is me,
and the old man is my great-grandpa.
I think so hard to that time back then,
when he held me tight in his arms.
Great-grandpa Mac and me,
outside sittin' in that old rocking chair.
I try my best to bring up my memories,
but I don't recall the smell of his clothes.
I think back as far as my mind will take me,
I just can't remember the warmth of his skin.
Did his long white beard tickle my face,
was I happy or was I scared?
I try, I try, why can't I think?
A memory just will not come!
Was it a warm summer day,
were the birds singing loudly?
Did he laugh, did he cry,
did he tell me he loved me?
He's no longer with us, that old man.
I don't even know when he died.
All I know is that picture on my wall
the one so straight and shiny.
Is of me and my great-grandpa Mac,
If only pictures could talk.