Papa holding the trophy the grandkids finally granted him
Champion of the World
So random, you declaring yourself “Champion of the World” as we—
two grandkids, you and I—rode
across California Avenue to the ice cream place, and the debate
began, rollicking, fierce, with our grandkids
in the back barely containing themselves in their seat
belts, laughing hard as they demanded
proof from you: How can you be champion of the whole, wide, entire
planet, Papa? Indeed,
how could you be? Like little lawyers, Charlie and Cassie laid out fact
after fact why there’s no such prize, and how
you just can’t be this champion thing! I had the front-seat view of
you, your mischief profile, your ersatz-smug
smile as you drove, chin high, insisting to our two angels that you
were THE Champ! Your reasons were a riot to
them, and we three wondered why our Papa had gotten
this hare-brained scheme. Looking back now, I see
the eternal, twinkling child-soul in you basking in our laughter on an
ordinary run to the ice cream place.
________________________________
* Poem and photo originally appeared in the author's book, Dearest Papa: A Memoir in Poems (Golden Foothills Press, 2020).
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