Vignette of my Grandfather

In this moment

I am thinking of my grandfather

and about his frail bones stretching

the rugged old carnival tent of his

skin loosely and beleaguered from

a life lived too long. I am watching

him, moving all jilted and stiff like

old 80's theme park animatronics,

sipping ceremoniously on a beer

that we all know he wont finish,

that none of us are sure he can taste,

and simply struggling to let slip from

his ragged and bruised old mouth

some charming joke stained yellow like the past.

 

I am studying his bruises, and

watching my young nieces wonder at

his ancient mysteries and his stiff old

frame. I, like the others in the room,

attempt amusement at his overt attempts

to charm my brother's wife, and I am searching

deep within myself to shoehorn a belief

that he will be as better tomorrow as he assures.

 

He is like a ruined sculpture of antique pride,

putting on airs when he can barely breathe.

I am thinking about how pathetic a scene this is,

and how it must have taken everything his tired

soul could muster to even fake it.

 

I am envying his pride and his willingness to lie

to himself and all of us

so that our hearts might break

in a way befitting a man too alive to die

without a beer in his hand.