My grandfather
was solid
granite.
And he played
to win
And he won
or the game
went on until
he won.
And he always played.
He never said no.

Icy blue eyes.
And a profile like the Indian on the Chicago Black Hawks' Jersey

Thanksgiving.
A family wrapped around a table.
Vietnam was the centerpiece.
With a brother whose number had been called.
And an argument.
And a grandfather.
Who always won.
Until I said it.
I, who always played but knew how to submit and lose.
I said it.
"Do you want to see him come home in a body bag?"

The words hung in the air
suspended by the smell of the turkey, the cranberry sauce, the apple cider,
the squash, the corn...

Those eyes
went from ice to the sea
softer, rolling, and aimless

I had won.
A moment.
And all I felt was shame.
..................Nothing but shame.