He sat there near the door with the oxygen tube connected to his nose. We’d spent over an hour putting on his shirt, a pair of pants, and shoes.
“Bud, I don’t think I can do it,” he said and sat back down.
The sunlight streamed through the window and the smell of begonias wafted in through the screen door.
“I wish I could see Belgium one more time. Those two girls made bikinis from our old army sweaters,” he said.
“Did you ever go to France?” I asked.
“No,” he laughed, wheezing and coughing. “The French fuck with their feet.”
This one is well written; but I suppose I’ve led a sheltered life–for the life of me, I just don’t get it.
Old WWII song- “The French they are a very strange race, parles vouz, They fight with their feet and they fuck with their face….” Grandpa got a little mixed up i think.
Thanks! Now it makes sense, and I like it!
I knew and loved this man. Good memory.
From strength to strength, Mannheim.