Grandfather

Coming home at 2am.

Smell of cigarettes, alcohol, and sweat – highlights of an evening’s production.

Crisp damp of a new morning clinging, he was like Jack Frost – heart happy and singing.

It was a kind of letdown that he had to come home, again.

He’d go straight to the couch after barely saying hello to me and grandma.

He used to let me lay alongside his length and snuggle while he’d smoke his cigarette as reclined.

He rarely spoke about his engagement.

Maybe he’d comment about what was on TV.

He’d tolerate it when I again begged him to stop smoking to avoid his later cancer.

And soon, his mouth would drop open into a loud snorking sound.

Grandma and me, we used to tease quietly – joking.

Then, “Hey, Grandpa…Wakeup! You were snoring!”

He’d make his apologkes and shuffle off to bed, yawning.

It was our ritual when I’d stay over.

I missed him, while he spent most of his time chasing glory.