Grandpa Had a Toolbox
Another one didn’t make it home.
I was one of the little ones. We were invisible.
The girls cooked.
Grandpa, he had his toolbox.
With his steely blue eyes it only took one glance, and a nod. First, the older ones went up to Mom’s room and took apart the cradle. Grandpa stayed silent. If the boys fought however, he’d slam the toolbox down loudly. He made his point.
They carried the pieces into the barn, hiding it under an old quilt. Mother came home the next week. “Where’s my cradle?!” she asked, distraught.
Then I’d hear him cry.