He knew he was crotchety.
He’d forgotten how to love.
His cane held him upright and
allowed him to kick at stones
along the winding path home.
He wanted for nothing but
stones to kick and maybe a
bone to pick once he arrived.
Being crotchety was safe.
He knew it and they knew it,
and at night after supper
he could be found down
in his old soldier’s fox hole.
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And we can only imagine what he saw, what entitles him to be a bit crotchety. The problem with “old soldiers” is that they were never given the chance to deal with what we now call PTSD–they just swallowed it.
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being crotchety was safe…love that.,this is a deep poem.
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So well described.
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I think his behavior mimics the protection of the trenches.
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We always gravitate to our safe place. I love this bit, Nan!
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Some times the foxhole is the only safe place.
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His behavior keeps people at arm’s length so he doesn’t have to open his heart and he’s afraid to leave the safety of the trenches after all those years…poor guy. Really enjoyed this, Nan!
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My favorite line: “being crochety was safe” 🙂
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…or is it spelled “crotchety”?
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Thanks for the spelling correction, Lynn! Brave soul. I usually don’t have the nerve to comment on errors.
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Feel free to return the favor…i’d want to know!
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Sometimes crotchety is indeed a choice.
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Stones to kick and a bone to pick… who could ask for anything more?
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I think some of that reflects me.
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Oh I love this — perfect picture of a wonderful curmudgeon! 🙂
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Oh, thank you, Lillian! I couldn’t give feedback to everyone because the next day the list was gone. (At least beyond my reach).
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