He Got Me Last

a short, imagery-laced memory of my grandfather

This game was played with two
Between my grandfather and me.
I touched his hand, and he touched mine back.
He got me last.

Much more than a game of touch with my grandfather,
An old man so young; his love as contagious as a cold.
To get one last meant eternal love and friendship,
The purpose of the game not spoken but known.

I can recall the days filled with the bitter stench of cigar smoke,
Spending countless hours on his lazy green patio.
Energetic as a toddler I was, but he grew old.
His posture and vivacity were no longer the same.
I got him last.

Then the gray day came and blanketed my life
When I perceived my partner of play,
His body so pale ranked of stale cleanness.

In his ear which could not listen,
Came words I could not speak.
I touched his velvety hand as a tear streamed down my cheek.
He got me last.