My grandfather

My grandfather has old-man stubble. It is white and seems like it has forgotten how facial hair is supposed to grow. Sporadically it pops out of his jowls and gives up shortly after. I've never seen my grandfather shave, but I know he does. It might be an old habit or the result of embarrassment at the uncooperative hair. When I was younger he asked me if I needed a shaving kit. He didn't care if I needed a shaving kit, he just wanted to know if I had started shaving. This is his normal approach to conversation. He starts with a predetermined goal and decides on a round about way to express himself.


Maybe that is what he considers when he lounges in his favorite chair by the window. A big gray shirt representing one of the four colleges his grandchildren attended hides his growing gut and pock-marked, old-people skin. His hands lock on the gut and his white tennis sneakers, old and worn, push him into the back of the chair until it creaks. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he rocks back and forth. His eyes are closed and he might smack his lips. When the rocking stops, he has fallen asleep.


When he was strong, he did the same. Before the brain tumors, his routine was the same. Now, besides the one useless eye leaking gunk down his face, he is the same. If you are curious about his disease you could ask him. I know better. Grandma fusses about, trying to help. She wants to get him juice or a sandwich. He growls, “Margaret, I'll tell you if I want a sandwich.” Then he closes his eyes again and keeps rocking.