Impossible War

My grandfather was recently put into a nursing home. This is me saying all of the things that I can't really say to him, but put in a more poetic format.

Papa, look at me, please. 

We are moving you into a new home. 

I would explain it to you,

but I haven't seen it yet. 

I am afraid to see it. 

I know you will be too. 

You won't even recognize my face

as I retell you exactly 

what I am telling you right now. 

We're taking you to a new home, Papa. 

I'm sure that it is has spotless white walls

and semi-clean floors that will

constantly have to be mopped

to clean up spittle...or food and drinks

spilled by people 

who want to be independent

the same way that you do. 

Papa, look at me, please. 

You can't fall asleep yet. 

I need you to be awake so I can 

tell you what's going on here. 

Nanny can't come along with you, Papa, 

but she wants to. 

The thud of your body hitting the floor

and your hip breaking

still rings loud in her ears,

and that happened years ago. 

Her love for you is still strong within her;

it is still in her heart. 

I say in her heart because 

it is beating for you. 

You are her reason for living. 

I know your memory is fading,

but please remember that. 

Remember that we will come and visit you. 

Hopefully there will still be times

when you can remember us. 

You're going to have a new family, Papa. 

Don't feel like you'll be the odd one out. 

Plenty of the people there 

used to be farmers. 

Plenty of the people there

are in wheelchairs. 

Plenty of the people there

will need the kind and gentle 

care of nurses,

but may never get it...

I've been told 

what happens in these homes, Papa,

and so have you,

but you can't think of it that way. 

I know that you've never trusted nurses. 

You probably look at them the same way 

you looked at the foxes that came 

towards the chicken coups 

that you used to have. 

You feel like they are trying 

to take something from you. 

In this case, you think that they

are trying to take your ability 

to be your own person. 

When your family looks after you 

and takes care of you 

you come to accept it because

you know that they love you. 

I need you to think 

of the nurses as your family, Papa,

even if it seems like 

they don't care about you, 

I need you to stay positive. 

I need you to think of 

this new place as your home. 

I need you to love these people

the same way that Nanny, Mom, Dad, Jacob, Trey, Navaeh, Vivian, and I love you. 

That's how you'll be happy here, Papa. 

And I know you will probably forget us.  

I know you may forget 

what I am telling you right now,

but I need for you to hear me. 

I need to get this out in the open. 

I need to let out some of this emotion. 

I need to let out all of the things

that I hide from you and myself

so that neither of us will get hurt. 

You know what pain is like, Papa. 

You know what pain is like. 

You broke your ankle falling off of a silo

before Mom was born. 

When they tried to draft you into Vietnam,

they couldn't because your ankle

had been broken a week before.

They couldn't take you away. 

They couldn't take you away 

to fight in a war you didn't know about

and no one at the time really knew about. 

They couldn't take you away. 

Your ankle was broken. 

Later, it healed. 

You became a father. 

A father to two wonderful daughters,

the first was my mother. 

If you had went to Vietnam and died there,

I wouldn't exist. 

Mom wouldn't exist.

Aunt Vivian wouldn't exist. 

My younger brother Jacob wouldn't exist.

Mom always told me that her and I have something in common

aside from how our faces 

both have long noses, 

high cheekbones, and a pointed chin 

just like yours. 

Her and I are both 

the eldest siblings in our family. 

Just like my Dad and my brother look alike 

and are both the youngest siblings. 

Mom always told me that being the eldest means that you have to be responsible

in every situation and at every opportunity

and I'm trying, I'm trying, Papa...

This is not exactly like what happened before they tried to take you to Vietnam.

You are in pain. 

That's still pretty similar to how it was,

but it's your whole body now,

not just your ankle. 

In Vietnam, they didn't take you

because they wanted to ensure your safety, in some way, shape, or form. 

But...we have to take you now. 

We have to take you

to that home with the nurses 

and the white walls 

because we have to 

ensure your safety, Papa. 

You are fighting a war

within your own body. 

This war is understood by those who have seen it or are in it, 

but not by those outside of it

who simply look on as an old man shakes. 

Parkinson's in the aggressor, Papa. 

We need a new defensive. 

We will move Nanny out of this house

and into a new home so that she can be close to your new home. 

You will be surrounded by allies

who make sure you take in your medication

because it is fresh ammo 

for combating the enemy 

because it is trying to blow you away.

We have to hit it harder!

We need reinforcements!

It's been storming the beaches and the jungles and the hills of you for so long

that it seems that this war is going to be impossible to win...

This war...is going to impossible...to win...

but I refuse to stop attempting

to postpone the inevitable. 

I love you, Papa. 

You can smile and laugh there

just like you always did at home. 

You can still live on. 

You can still...live...

for a little while.

Author's Note

I am open to any forms of criticism. Criticism will help me grow as a person and as a poet.