When I was little you were larger than life.
The ogre that sat on the couch smoking cigars
who would bark at me to, "know what you want before you open the fridge!"

Your eyes would sparkle when you smiled
and your hugs were so huge they would nearly smother me.
You taught me the importance of doing right and making a name for myself.
Through your many honors at work, I learned about working hard and its rewards.
Most importantly, you fathered seven children and taught me the importance of family.

My father and my uncle carried you to the table for brunch this Sunday.
Your legs nearly dragged behind you.
You wear a diaper now.
You fall down and hurt yourself regularly.
You can barely see and hardly hear.
You are bitter and angry and waiting to die.
You are a shell of what you once were.

And now I've learned that I never want to grow old.
Give me the hot shot and some dignity.
I love you, Zaidie.





In other news... the garden is in bloom and I'm finding it hard to focus on anything else...