Returning to the Battlefield

He was always a tough man, independent and ever so determined to enjoy life to the fullest from the sanctuary of his condo, with the family he loved dearly...but everything comes to an end sometime, doesn't it?

I watched him fall apart slowly, torturously slowly, each day more punishing than the last. He loved his country so much that he fought for it, and his family so much that he prioritized it, no matter how far he had to drive to see his grandson score a run on the baseball diamond, or how early he had to rise to see those grandchildren off to kindergarten. All of this he did, and all the gratitude and love I had for him, I neglected to express.

His daughter, weary with stress, kissed her father before leaving the room, one complete with a hospital bed, visiting chairs, and comforting paint. She left, traversing hallways in search of the nurse's station. She left me alone with that man sitting silently on the bed. She left me with a terrible tempest of thoughts ravaging my mind.

My grandfather was to be transferred to a hospice center. I was young, but it wasn't difficult to understand why. Uncontrollable sickness sucks, doesn't it?

His eyes fell on me, irises, chocolate brown in hue, gleaming despite the wretchedness of his eventual fate, fate the people who loved him regrettably accepted. I looked away from him quickly, my eyes, similarly colored, shining with tears as I studied my hands.

My throat felt tight. My eyes were stinging. My vision was incredibly blurry. He was so active, so...alive. There wasn't one day I could remember that he hadn't visited the gym at sunrise, hadn't met up with old friends to get a bite to eat at a diner he adored. There wasn't one concert, one birthday party, one holiday dinner he hadn't traveled to attend. What happened?

My despondency was obvious, and he shifted on the bed, patting it gently.

"Come here, dear."

I kept my eyes lowered, my cheeks tinted pink in embarrassment. I didn't want him to see me cry. If he could be strong, so could I.

I sank onto the hospital bed beside him, my hair shrouding my eyes like curtains. He told me to look up at him. With great trepidation, I complied.

My mother told me once that he was handsome in his prime, pointing at his youthful face in his military photograph with a warm smile. Studying him then, I realized that the attribute had never left him.

"I love you, you know that?"

At that moment, my heart shattered like glass and fell away, his thin arms encircling me as I wept. He was never really affectionate, always wearing a tough front like his uniform. This was different.

We both knew what would become of him. He was losing his second war, and not even his comrades could aid him.

"I love you too, grandpa. I love you so much."