The Man I Used to Know

Running, laughing, screaming, falling, crying.
Picked up, dusted off, spoken to, hugged.
As a child I admired and feared you.
You stood tall, strong, and seemed to control the way the world turned.
A smile for when you were happy to see me / an even bigger smile when I was happy to see you / a mischievious grin when pulling a prank / a silly grin when telling a joke / a giant’s smile accompanied by a booming laugh, this is what I remember about the man I used to know.

Cement walls and crowded halls.
It’s been too long.
Where are your puzzles, your fish, your reading glasses, your jokes?
“You staying out of trouble?”
“Is it free?”
“It’s those damn ducks, they’re back again!”
These are the things I miss about the man I used to know.

Lying there, I see only a shadow of what you once were.
Eyes blank and glossy.
A smile, once permanently etched on your face, now creeps up so infrequently and briefly I question whether it was there at all.
The man I used to know is gone.
I see fleeting glimpses of him.
I hope he is reminded of this man when he looks at the pictures.
Because this man was brilliant, witty, caring, considerate, strong, and warm.
As a child I admired and feared you.
As an adult I admire and fear for you.
The man I used to know.
My grandfather.