My grandfather who wears his skin like iron and has blood like kerosine can always be found sitting in his leather chair, shared with a shadow of his cologne and liquor. He’s gruff and prickly, sturdy and solemn. He used to be my superman. Invincible and flawless, able to protect me and defeat any challenge. But things change.With a beer in his hand and a bitterness in his heart he’s bound to the house. He never comes to see my hockey games, to visit for thanksgiving or birthdays. It’s his job to stay behind and take care of the house he says. He’s got a yellowing crooked smile, that I don’t see much anymore, not since the day his heart stopped and my grandmother, an angel like no other screamed his name so loud that the sky cracked open and he started to breathe again. He’s been fractured since then, nobody else was ever able to hear it but I could always hear wild horses thundering inside him, but I can’t hear them anymore. Now from behind the gray of his tired eyes, the sound of static is overwhelming. I’ll never understand the layers of scars that cover him in an impenetrable shield. From his father's fists - an abusive childhood, his time in vietnam, and a street cop in Oakland. He used to tell me to wear my hair curly because he loves me the way I am, the way god made me. I love him too but I miss the way he was without the static in his head.