For Grandfather, Dying Hard

Old man, coughing your way half here, back far enough from death to see the surface, thick with those who bother to breathe air, die, float off in the dark and disappear beyond all sonar but my memory. What makes you think you can still live here, your huge heart thin as a red balloon, shaking your body like a distant bomb-blast? But most of all I hate your eyes, their fear.

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