His eyes were greyer than usual,
lines the years had spun. His bushy mustache
tickled the corners of his mouth
and gently dipped
into the stain of his gum.
I recalled him being taller.
Perhaps now that he was bent
he looked smaller.
As he rocked in that old oak chair,
he looked me over, again and again.
I seemed to remember a tale he
used to spin, about papa and hounds
and how they howled when
the autumn winds blew and winter
hid just behind low clouds.
His old white hat had yellowed.
His harsh voice had mellowed.
Yet still his heart bellowed
To be loved.
No longer a child, I may not sit
on his knee,
nor talk about life and the freedom
but I had those days of which to
and love the memory of it all
and as grandpa glares through the
I smile at him through my tears.