By Sammy Ginsberg
For Papa Joe
Sitting on his green leather chair
with the wood arm rests,
the one he’s had for decades
now in room 757 at The Variel.
“I just feel so afraid.”
his eyes twinkle blue
and he looks like a little boy,
with his yellow shirt
tucked into his underwear.
“What are you afraid of, Grandpa?”
I ask, Top Gun paused behind us.
“I don’t know what I’m afraid of,
but I feel it all the time,” he says.
He looks off, thinking,
staring at his Industrial Engineer license
staring at picture of his red corvette,
now sold to his nephew.
“I’m afraid of everything,”
“I’m afraid of everything except death,
if I was dead, this would all be over,
I could rest.
Instead, pain in my chest,
my stomach, no bowel movement
in four days, four days!
And something is wrong with my brain,
I know it.”
He is living the American Dream,
one corvette,
two daughters
three ex-wives,
a four bedroom home
five grandkids
a six figure pension,
and $7,000 a month to live here,
Worked all his life to end like this,
never needed anyone,
lived alone for 20 years,
never once felt afraid
never once felt lonely.
“Oh!
It’s 5pm, time for dinner,
want to join? I love spending time
with family and friends,
the only things that matter.”
Gets his blue cane, and walks away
to pre-cut cesar salad, steak and potatoes,
friendly resident servers, and
a man who thinks it is Sunday
morning at the Schul.
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