The Sort of Gift a Grandpa Gives.

This is the duct tape they use to repair airplanes.
Heavy. Solid. Abrasively sticky.
Collecting clung hair and dirt.
Shining and black on the surface. Gray and dull within.
Half a mile or so wrapped up around a cardboard ring.
Strong enough to hold together a plane.

A gift given by a man who is a grandfather, through and through.
Like he was born for the job from the very start.
A child destined to be looked up at by children.
Reaching for over-sized glasses and filling nostrils with slobber-fingers.
Touching his eternal smile framed by round red mounded cheeks.
A man who makes his children’s children happier to live.
And tape strong enough to fix wings. The sort of gift a grandpa gives.
Among others. Sneaky smiling while he hands them over.
Wet eyes locked, knowing, he is that timeless sort of clever.

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