Austin Belanger writes

December 7^th 

Everyday,

He went to work,

I waved as he drove away.

Until he was out of sight.

A Chevy Station Wagon,

"Wood-grained side panels",

Five doors,

Two bench seats,

And those cool pop ups in the back.

We all fought each other for the chance to sit in them.

It was the coolest vehicle I had ever known.

Because it was his.

Everday,

At six he'd pull up and come through our front door,

Tired from all of the day's abuse,

But never speaking of it,

Secretly worried about his job,

And we'd tackle his legs at the front door.

The smell of Pall Mall cigarettes,

And Aqua Velva.

He always hugged us back,

Smiled a tired smile,

Told us he loved us,

With a five o'clock shadow scratching our little faces,

Then shooed us into the kitchen.

He was never too shy to show us that he loved Mom.

He kissed her often,

She hugged him in front of us.

I remember their fights,

Because they were so rare.

But even when arguing,

They chose their words wisely,

Never called each other names,

At least,

Not in front of this child.

I remember if I heard them,

They would argue in whispers,

Which is comical to me now.

I remember his brown slacks and tie,

His button down shirt,

His blazer jacket,

His black hair flipped back,

In a 50's greaser look.

Subdued though,

So as to not offend "the man",

And to keep his professional image,

Forever clean-shaven.

A high school grad.

A Marine.

A Sailor.

Competing with college kids who never served one day,

But always held the upper hand.

He cracked his knuckles,

Bit his fingernails,

Shook his sugar packet to get it all in the bottom.

He sipped Shaefer beer from the can,

Taught me to shave,

And told me not to wish my life away.

A prophet, and my idol.

As if he knew

I'd grow up soon enough.

But I wanted to be him.

He played golf with his buddies,

Filled the cooler with Shasta sodas,

That we drank until wired and sick,

And sent us to look for four leafed clovers,

When socializing with the big people,

At barbeques in the backyard,

In the spring time,

And in the summer.

25 cents a clover was the bounty,

And we cheated all the way,

But he still paid,

And laughed knowingly at our ruse.

He told me to use my wits and not my fists,

To talk and not fight

As one who had too many fights under his belt.

He listened to classical music,

And I took up violin in grade school and continued,

Until my freshman year,

Because I wanted to understand his music,

Because I wanted to be him.

I remember when they told me that he was gone,

I didn't believe he'd never walk through the door again.

My sister was silent for a long time,

My mother would not leave the couch,

Numb.

Kicking rocks and not getting it yet,

I wandered my own driveway.

As if trapped in a vivid dream.

A nightmare.

No one to talk to.

I had large shoes to fill,

I was told,

"You are the man of the house."

A statement no 8 year old should ever have to bear.

I remember the rain when they buried him,

My father's father in my embrace,

"It's going to be OK, grandpa",

A little boy trying to be the Man,

The knot my throat is still there,

The tears are still fresh,

They don't leave me.

Time heals nothing.

It just dulls the pain,

To a ceaseless ache.

41 years...

Woulda,

Coulda,

Shoulda...

But I would not trade this hurt

To forget.

I would not forget him,

For anything.

I would not wish for any better.

For to me, there's no one else

That wore those shoes, the way he did.

For life is unfair,

So many have said before.

But life is what it is,

And death the open door to the next.

I see him in my dreams,

His example guides my way.

I hope to fill his shoes.

That he sees me,

That he sees himself within me.
 
 Grandpa's Woody -- Riki Colby