He was senile, had dementia as my Aunt called it,
didn’t know my name or who was president.
Yet, he battled each day, strong as a warrior
up until that moment he was forced to let go.
He couldn’t wave his cane or cause pestilence anymore.
He broke his hip, rode sidesaddle to the hospital
and we never heard him call us names again.
I told my Grandpa before being lowered into the grave:
“When I grow up, I’m going to be a crazy sonovabitch just like you.”