The little boy skipped into the room, a sparkle in bright wide eyes.
"Grandpa, look what I made. It's just for you. Surprise!"

"Don't run inside this house," his grandpa then did scold.
"You're six years old. It's time, young man, you minded what you're told."

The little boy swallowed hard the lump now in his throat,
clutched his hand around the stone, hand-painted, coat by coat.

"I guess it's not that pretty, anyway," he sighed.
"I didn't think you'd like it," the young lad firmly lied.

He opened up the tiny fist, the stone there in his palm,
and looking down through tearful eyes, his voice was low and calm,

"The teacher made me paint it. I knew it'd turn out dumb."
He stuffed it in his pocket, his limp body growing numb.

He looked up into stern gray eyes. "I should go out to play."
He wiped his nose upon a sleeve, turned and walked away.

And as he reached the closed front door his tender heart did pray,
"God, don't let me get that old. I'd rather die today."

He stepped out in the sunlight and, squinting, looked around,
took out the worthless painted stone and tossed it to the ground.

The prayer remained unanswered. And through the Good Lord's grace,
the "young man" breezed through manhood...yet, that memory could not erase.

And sometimes during twilight, he couldn't help but wonder
why he worried about his grandpa, though all these years they'd been asunder.

He'd remember a first-grade teacher and that stupid painted stone,
and wondered why it meant so much, sometimes, when all alone.

That hard to swallow lump would somehow jump back in his throat.
And he'd wash it down with bourbon from a flask kept inside his coat.

He tried to force his tender heart rock-hard, as he grew old;
but couldn't ever, like Grandpa said, mind what he was told.

He should have gone today, he thought, to help pick out the stone.
Shouldn't have made grandmother choose the inscription, all alone.

Stone-faced he stood at Grandma's side and whispered his reason why:
"I didn't think he'd like it," the young man firmly lied.

He stepped out in the sunlight and, squinting, looked around
to view a plain and simple stone erected there on hallowed ground.

He pressed the flask to trembling lips -- to speed remorse succumb --
then stuffed it in his pocket, his limp body growing numb.

Alone now at the graveside, though he felt that he should pray
...he wiped his nose upon a sleeve, turned and walked away.