Granddad challenged me to arm wrestles
with his gout-ridden, deformed arm.
I was a boy and even using two hands,
I couldn’t put him down.
He never let me win,
never gave me a false pleasure.
He wasn’t like that.
It would be better when I earned it.
He was strong, granddad was.
His crippled body carried hundred-pound
sacks of grain for years.
And suddenly he couldn’t do that anymore.
He loved to putz around the garage,
tinkering and fixing things,
fiddling around with his car,
making home-made wine.
He would be in his garage
for hours every day.
The house he and granny rented was sold.
They moved to the only
place they could afford.
A tiny apartment.
No garage.
No putzing around.
No tinkering.
No home-made wine.
Though he was only in his sixties,
mom said he had no purpose,
and that he probably
wouldn’t last the year.
She was right.