My wife and I always
look forward to seeing our two-year-old grandson learn new words and new tasks.
Recently, he learned how to do a fist bump, which has become his new way of
greeting us. He also calls me “papa,” which is what I called my grandfather. My
time with my grandson brings back memories of the years I spent with my
grandparents.
They bought me many coloring books, crayons, toys, and always
gave me money for my birthday, which lasted until my 46th birthday. I have
saved the cards and letters they had sent me over the years. I have read and
reread them often. My grandfather died in 1998, and my grandmother died last
year. I was a pallbearer for my grandmother when she was buried at the
Indiantown Gap National Cemetery.
I stayed at the cemetery long enough to watch
her coffin lowered into the ground. Until that moment, I couldn’t believe she
was gone. This beautiful person who loved me my entire life would no longer
send me birthday cards or talk to me on the phone.
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