Sinking into soft cushions,
I sit next to crackling flames,
whose warmth licks my cold face.
Grandpa sits across from me
with his old leather boots
resting up on a stool,
relaxing weary joints.
Curled up in blankets I wait for his stories.

Peeking through tall grasses
Grandpa runs through a field,
his dark leather boots
grind through dirt and mud.
He holds his helmet on his head,
and his rifle in his hand,
as he sprints and earth explodes.
In my dreams, after the stories,
he falls, red seeping from wounds
as I shift underneath the heavy blankets.

The soft carpet tickles my hands
and the glowing embers
light his wrinkled face
in the warm darkness.
His rough baritone breaks
the silence of my anticipation.

My heavy eyelids fall,
as Grandpa's voice fades.
I run through a field,
rifle in hand, dodging
the spraying dirt
with Grandpa's leather boots
tied around my small feet.