Grandfather Had Parkinson’s

Grandfather was a broken man.

His hands and head shook with constant motion.

His arms useless

as he shuffled from chair,

to porch,

to outhouse and back,

yelling for Grandmother’s help.

            And she would emerge from the kitchen

            with her apron in place,

            smelling of bread

            speaking to him in Swedish,

            and the crisis would pass.

Long strings of drool hung from his chin,

too strong to break, resisting

his feeble attempts at wiping,

until he stopped in submission – another

part of life

to be endured.

Strong families accept each member,

and I was allowed to learn, watching from a distance —

except for those times when like a captured bird,

I was placed upon his lap,

trembling with fear,

straining to fly away.

And Grandfather would weep.