Dada

I call my grandpa dada,
He's near 90 years of age,
He's forgotten how we're related,
But love's me anyway.

He's constantly agitated,
Keeps asking 'where do I have to go?',
But soon gets distracted,
By the wrestlemania show.

He love's counting buttons,
And riding in the car,
Sometimes he call me donkey,
At other times calls me a star!

He doesn't like when its quite,
Creates a ruckus to get attention,
He always manages a vague answer,
When I pose a confusing question.

Sometimes he also hits,
With his fists or his walking stick,
But if I look like I'll cry,
He holds my hand and my pulls my cheek.

He used be very punctual,
About exercise and bus timings,
He loved math, accounts and brain vita,
He was always positive and smiling.

'One thing at a time, that to be done well'
Dada always said.
'Always put things where you found them'
He unfailingly maintained.

He used to take seven one rupee coins,
And exchange it for rupees ten,
He bought me books, toys and candy,
Pointed at birds, butterflies, cows, hens.

He loved being organized,
He always helped others,
But now he needs us for everything,
He's like a frail little feather.

He's always bought happiness,
First with bedtimes stories and jokes,
And now as time passes,
With his strange language monologues.

He has a beautiful laugh,
Shiny silver hair and dancing eyes,
Keeps on talking when someone's around,
He really hates goodbyes.

So much luck and a million shining stars,
Is what dada brings to me,
He's linked to my smiles and soul,
And I bask in our shared glee.

:-)