The Broken Toy Soldier

A steely cold look that shows the war torn years of a man that has seen things.  Things in this life that no human would ever wish to see.  A face that shows honor, determination, strength, and the lines of wisdom only a thousand year old oak could match.  He smells of black oil and metallic dust as only a man can that is used to fixing everything in his life with his own two hands.  His hands tremble slightly, but only when he isn't focused on a task.  This is due to the years that struggle to keep up with him instead of the other way around.  I look up at this tower of a man as he holds a child's toy, my toy, a toy marine.  Being so young the irony is lost on me, this man that has lived a life that this toy suggests.  With hands that used to command entire platoons he helps to fix the toy soldier.  Looking past his glasses he smiles at me as he snaps the pieces back together.  I'm in awe of this man, for the simple fact that he can "fix anything," build whatever he pleases, and here he is fixing my toy.  A couple seconds later his gruff voice coos to me as my action figure becomes whole once again.  Giving him a hug I say, "Thanks Grampa," and then I excitedly run back outside to play with my friends.  My Grandpa strolls over to the window to watch me play outside on the front lawn.  He smiles to himself.  He's not living for country anymore, hes not living to protect and serve hundreds of thousands, he's not jumping out of airplanes to stave off mother nature, he loves and protects to be with his family.  He lives a life now that is just as important in a little boys eyes, one that could never be replaced or done by another.  He's my Grandpa.