Way back when men were expected to be of a certain mould: tough, cold and closed off, Grandfather knew it best. He had seen things that desensitized him and would do so to the strongest of souls, he had lived through a war and then some. He was a crazy old lad not afraid to fight for what he believed in. He had suffered for most of his life oddly finding comfort in the certainty of suffering’s presence in the next day. He believed like many in his time that comfort weakens, softens, and reduces men to just boys. Of course, he had to think this way to provide an although sad a reason but a reason nonetheless that could justify the suffering. He was a man who left for the world when it was still dark out and returned after the sun had set as a sacrifice for a better life for his family — the only thing he ever truly cared about or valued. He knew his way around the battlefield all too well an anti-depressant for a depressed soul, he barely ever cracked a smile, but who would, what he had been through is enough to drive many off the bridge to rid themselves of the feeling. If not for his belief of what it meant to be a man he would have never have accepted what many deemed an unpleasant existence, but he knew what many had forgotten in that his grandfather had it even worse, the grandson of a slave, he was just happy to have his freedom.