My dear grandpa,
your voice is still the one I hear in my mind while I'm reciting poetry or flipping through the works of Robert Frost. I still feel you there whenever I pray and the first thing I do when I open my eyes is look to see if you are still there. The pages of your scriptures still smell just like you. The chair in our living room still smells of you also. I can sit there in the mornings, looking out the window watching as the sun spreads itself like butter over the sleeping lawn. I can rock in that chair while watching the birds flying about or the peddals slowly opening and recal words from your journal and the thorough appreciation for every inch of beauty held in this earth. The mentions of seemingly insignificant details: 'Lexi was outside the bedroom door this morning waiting for me to wake up. We hugged and spend the next hour or so together while the others slept."
I remember the terror that ran through my veins when we went swimming a few years ago. You were very old but you still tried to swim with me. I moved your oxygen tank around the pool wherever you went so you could still breathe. While I was showing you how fast I could swim you lost your footing and fell into the water and was struggling to get back up. I was swimming over as fast as I could but nothing seemed to be fast enough. We didn't swim again after that. I remember the day I came home from school crying because of my skinned knees. You carried me to a chair and spent the afternoon showing me your stamp collection. I couldn't stop swinging my legs, even though it hurt so badly. I remember waking up each morning of my childhood to see you sitting at the counter and say "goodmorning, merry sunshine!" without fail. I remember sitting on the floor at 15 while you asked me what about the gospel scared me. I hadn't yet realized I was scared. I remember all the times I made sculptures that resembled you at school. You are my hero. I'm so grateful I had the sense to realize that while you were still alive and treasure my moments with you.
I remember the stern look in your eyes when you told me I needed to come down again this summer. "Not for me, for your grandma." I promised I would.
And now I sit here in your house, without you, and it always feels as if you must be back in the bedroom sleeping or maybe at the table reading. Obituaries are scattered across the table top as I sip my hot chocolate (extra marshmallows) and I can't help but let my tears fall.
I love you, grandpa. I miss you.