My grandfather’s World War One Helmet showcases my living room bookshelf, looking brittle, and like a toy for little boys. Silly to think it was once worn by a man with hard eyes and big, busted up hands. Hands that policed Boston for decades, Bribes, beatings, and little old ladies with groceries. The helmet is cold to the touch, Rough along the ridge. The leather strap has dried out, like my grandfather’s skin after the cancer. Sometimes when I place it on my lap, curled up like a sleeping cat, stroking the bumpy, discolored steel, I think about my grandfather walking with a limp and how he flinched as if struck, when I excitedly showed him my attic discovery.
^Ditto. I have my grandfather's old auxilary cop stetson...He died of cancer, and I remember the last time I saw him, his hands felt like the dried-up strap on his hat. That line was beautiful...brought back memories.
