Grandfather

My Grandfather

As I recall it, it wasn’t long ago that I had been in Egypt enjoying the kind warm air that seemed to invite you to the beaches. My grandfather lived on his glorious land. He looked like the king of the area he occupied at any given moment. His stance was always very powerful and showed a sense of power that would invite only the highest of guests into one of his conversations. In his prime years, he would shake a person’s hand with four mighty fingers and a dominant thumb. His powerful vain filled hands suppressed anyone’s attempt to shake back just as sturdily. The wrinkles on his hands were like raging rivers that not only drew your eye to them but cause you to be infatuated with the structures formed upon them. Making your way up to his eyes, you would journey past the forest that was his arm. It was filled with sinewy muscle and tightly knit hair. If you had not noticed upon shaking his hand, you would notice it twice as much at this very moment. Every muscle in his forearm fluctuated and asked for attention. In the sunlight of the mid-afternoon, the shadows softened his arm and made it a more relaxing sight. His sleeve restricted further sight of this forest. The journey continued until you would rest on his neck. Covered in freckles, it took usually a few quiet seconds to admire the sight. His jugular vain did not seem to attract attention, yet it made it’s presence known to anyone willing to pay the small fee of moving their eyes towards it. His convivial face never disappointed a single soul. His smile screamed, “The show must go on” in every moment of the waking day. It was quite frustrating to have to leave the sight of his miniature circus on your journey to his eyes. His dimples swayed with hauteur every time a statement traveled through his mysterious mouth. His rounded ears kept your attention upon his face and made sure your thoughts did not stray from him. Once his eyes possessed you, you were entranced and locked into them. The specks of green in the ocean of hazel that were his eyes drew a puzzle on his retina. You were inclined to solve this puzzle before you had to leave his presence. More amazing then his pure posture was his movement. His calf directed my navigation with its sure path and sturdy build. I was small at the time, so I would always stand behind him. I would have the pleasure of examining the labyrinth that was the back of his arm. Countless curves promoted you to count them. After realizing that I could not, I would refocus on his calf to follow the correct path. Many times did we travel upon the dark friendly streets finishing undone errands. As we did, the tides in the oceans of his eyes grew weaker, and we frequented the oculist. His calf no longer knew the way as it once did. I knew that his power would have to soon end. His handshake presented a more friendly opportunity than it previously had. My eyes were still denizens to his stature. I remember that his rivers no longer raged and his freckles no longer spoke. Only the memory remained. Today he stands upon a calm platform. No longer does he enter the arena of competition. The attention he once demanded had moved on to its next victim. He was free from expectations, but to me he stood the same as he did in his days of pride. He stood tall to me, and his grip was stronger than ever before.