Today probably marks one of the final occasions
Upon which I will visit my grandfather
Long years have made him weary
A war drawn through many winters
He is deceptively small, hardly more than five feet
But like an iceberg his hidden self is vast
Travelled the world on military campaign
He does not speak of this part of his past
My family makes prompts in asking
How he crossed the Channel, entered Germany
The frontline combat that ensued
Has never escaped his conscience
At the slightest mention of the Battle of the Bulge
His face glazes over, and he is brought back
He relives instantly, right in front of me
The soldiers who died, friendly or not
I never asked if he killed anyone
And he would never tell me
The men of his time were moved to terrible actions
They returned home numb or wrapped in plastic
I cannot imagine such an experience
To be held so near my age
Spent several fortnights living in a foxhole
The bloodiest battle, taken by surprise
My father’s father like many fathers
Did what he had to do
He remains a soldier to this day
My respect is endless for the mighty