Childhood Hero

I remember the old cracked fake leather armchair
you would recline in at the end of the day
next to the itchy green pull-out couch
where I would lay in amazement at the sound of trains
passing by in the distance in the middle of the night.
There was always a Readers Digest condensed book
split open at the spine, well worn,
sitting on the end table by the lamp
we used as a nightlight.
I remember your teeth soaking in a cup by the sink,
and laughing as grandma told us in warning
to take care of ours or they would fall out too.
I remember the comb you bought me as a present
that I cherished until I lost it out the window
as we returned home down a dark road
after an evening of fishing.
As I got a little older, you got a lot older
and the destiny of mortality slowly took your body functions.
Your pride stayed strong as I grew into my broad shoulders
that heredity passed down your family tree.
During a confusing summer I was with you in the night
when you were no longer able to speak.
I helped your sweet wife change your wet clothes,
and was too scared to laugh,
not that I ever wanted to.
My childhood hero reduced to the perils of decay
as grandma slowly succumbed to the woes of depression
and after you were gone dementia took my childhood from her
retiring as the symbol of peace and love that she always was
when I sat on your knee and you bounced me
like a cowboy riding a bucking bronco,
your laughter matching mine,
so small but pure
in almost forgotten moments of innocence,
now dwindling half memories
behind curtains of bittersweet tears.