He covered the glass with a towel,
the container of sweet golden nectar.
"I don't want flies in my drink," he said. "They're dirty and filthy."
Taking the steps to protect his thirst,
as he sat upon the fragile chair.
Lazing in the summer sun while we played and explored the jungle of the back yard.

Walking through fields of green and dirt,
holding his giant's hand.
Vegetables growing in every direction.
"What's that bottle for, Grandad?"
Even as a man who stood at five foot seven,
he looked massive in comparison.
He peered down at the child and explained:
"The insects will eat all my hard work away,
unless I use this magical potion."
Such passion for taking care of the things he loved.

A sentiment which was not shared with all,
as you left her needs as something to ignore.
You made her hate life, hate herself and what for?
She was not your enemy she was your fucking wife.
So she ran from you when it got too much to take, just like your children who knew your temper.
"Why don't you and Grandpa live together anymore?" but all she could do was reassure me while holding back the tears.

Then the fateful day came along.
Walking from school with the soundtrack of laughter with friends.
I opened the door to find my Mother in tears.
You made her fucking float.
You didn't physically push her, but the years in which you were not kind did.
You were meant to protect her, protect us all.
But she saw no other escape except for the cold embrace of the canal water.
I hate you for what you did to her.
This is why I skipped your funeral.
I do not miss you, but I miss her every day.