Grandpa

Grandpa a kind face skin leathery and creased from years of working in the sun long jowls like a basset hounds sad droplet eyes always a slight aroma of beer brown wrinkled callous palms dirt-stained fingernails were evidence of an old man’s toil a blue plaid shirt now ashen from wear a tall man always unshaven with scrapes of gray hair that would scratch you un-mercifully if he asked for a hug he walked with shoulders hung and bowed over as if broken that of a man who had known the burdens of inequality all his life the kindness in his eyes reflected a graceful acceptance of his fate his tears masked a rage and unforgiveness for the destiny of his children late afternoons he would sit out yonder under a huge black gum tree a blackened wood briar pipe a pack of red man chewing tobacco and a can of snuff beside him one jaw always popped out as the tobacco had to sit just long enough before it was time to spit he would sit in that shaded spot for hours on end up till sunset most days always staring intently at something out there was it memories from his past or perhaps the dreams of a past that someone stole eventually, grandma would call out to him Henry where you be? he would always reply after awhile I’m just there… I never understood what that meant before Until now