I stand over him in his electric reclining chair
A book lays open on his stomach
Wrinkled hands are clasped on top of the book
His head is cocked sideways
Headphones attached to his deaf sleeping ears
The train show he watches everyday is playing again
I ache for the days
He takes my hand and walks
Me to the garage (his castle)
Teaching me his ways
Old tools, old trucks, contraptions I
Don’t have a name for
All made with the hands that
Tiredly clasp the book on his stomach
Later in the kitchen
Sun pours through the open windows
A warm breeze drifts over us
He reminisces of war stories
Being on the ship watching them
As they sign the peace treaty
Night air drifts through the window
He is tired
No more stories to tell this day
Walking to the garden
He shuffles
I walk alongside
Holding on to his tired, achy body
Not long ago
The girls picked their pumpkin and
He diligently carved their names on the baby pumpkins
Laid them down gently to grow
Later to be picked when the names look all wrinkly and old
Much like his hands today
A tear escapes my eye as I look at the tired old man
Sitting in his chair
Where I always find him now
Never in the garage
Never in the garden
Never working on a truck or crane
As I wipe the tear from my cheek
The old man in the chair wakes up
He smiles at me
And says, “Bless your heart”
In a voice that sounds like warm doughnuts
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