Greeting you is the sharp, savory smell of retirement
Lined with green-ribbed carpet and yellowed fluorescents.
The elevator ride is gentle,
But not nearly as enticing as the stairs.
You can hear the TV murmuring softly behind the door,
Singing songs of star crossed lovers and the gentle countryside
In his native tongue.
The room is a patchwork of memories,
Stitched together by misunderstood jokes
and the thrill of his bellowing.
His love is a memory
stored in the warmth of his worn, cracked hands
perpetually reaching out
and pulling in.
That is my grandfather;
The facts are a fickle technicality.