Clara Purtha 4-17-15

Going to his house was painful,

To see him sitting there.

In his small rocking chairWatching his shows

Getting skinner by the day,

To have to lie to him


So we could go search around,

Seeing where he hide the acohol,

This time.

Wrenching at my heart strings,


To not HAVE to do this any more,

To not have to look,

Wondering when it is going to be the last time,

I see him


Every few days we,

Would go to his home

And always,


Find two

To three bottles

By his recliner,

In the kitchen,

In the cabinets,

Or in the fridge

Always partially empty.


A few years go by,

My mom goes alone.

That very day

To find

That he wasn't in his chair,

Tv wasn't on,

Bathroom door wasn't closed.

The one place he was,

Was in his bed

Not one breath was taken

Just the best grandfather

A girl could ask for.


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