He has a helicopter in his garage.
The propellers are off, of course,
safely stored. He sits behind the bay window
in the home office where he can see all
and all can see him - resolute, steadfast.

He's a commercial pilot, of course,
the very model of the husk of modern manhood.
Trained, bred to be ready to give his all
while gliding through a work-day life
of unrelenting routine and tedium.
He IS brave, of course.

As I walk past and ponder the brave life
I remember preparing to move from my first house
and the retired minister across the street
coming over to visit while I packed the truck.

He saw me notice the young boy
playing in his yard and he quietly began to speak
of his grandson's lot in life.
He spoke of the Sunday drive home from church.
Of following his son's car as they approached
the hill just before the farm. He casually spoke
of the car that came over the crest
on the wrong side. Of rushing to his son's car,
finding that his son's last act was to somehow
brace himself in a way that drove a forearm bone
through his head.

He went on to say that was the one time
his grandson had rode home with him,
not with the father, mother and sister
who were gone in an instant on that hill.

Quietly he was helping to build a new nest for his grandson
and finding solace in the child's survival, in his flourishing
with the loving care that surrounded him.

The pilot is surely brave
but I know no word
that fully honors that grandfather
or his acts of love.