He was senile 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 mischief anymore.
He broke his hip, rode sidesaddle to the hospital
and we never heard from him again.
I told my Grandpa before being lowered into the grave:
“When I grow up, I’m going to be a crazy sonovabitch like you.”
We have all had relatives like this. I remember my “Grandpa” Paul or “Polo” as he was called. You never approached him directly because he spoke Spanish. Grandma would always ask us to say “hello” to him nonetheless. And I would out of respect for her. Thank you for bringing up the happy memory of pleasing her.
I hope Grandpa Polo caused a good ruckus!