Papa
He was young
He didn’t had much
He worked the cotton fields for pennies
When the Depression passed, he married his love
He was happy
He raised 3 beautiful children
He drove a bus till he retired
The white picket fence dream come true
He grew older
He loved his 6 grandchildren
At Thanksgiving he could never say the whole prayer without crying
He had so much to be thankful for
He sat alone
He didn’t seem to know her face
He was thinking she was still 12
He started to cry when he realizes he doesn’t know where he is
He is dying
At 85, he lays in his hospital bed
And asks my grandmother why she covered in blood
And why she calls the young man in frame their son
This isn’t how the story is suppose to end