no place

Pa may be seventy-two. But he still feels like he’s seventeen. Not in his bones. Or in his muscles. Or maybe even in his mind. But in the part of him that makes him…him. It’s like the last fifty odd years just happened around him while his being stood still. And that being..that thing that stares out his eyeballs….the thing that can’t get its head around what its body wont do…is the thing that matters.

Pa feeds a cast-iron furnace when he’s cold. Climbs into the mountains with empty gallon jugs when he’s thirsty. I press a button to adjust the heat and pull a tap to fill my glass, and feel terrible about it every time. Because my grandfather shouldn’t have to have it so hard. Even if he wants it that way.