I was 7 years old when my grandfather died. My memories of him are like a happy, but forgotten dream. I know I loved him because just thinking about him gives me a sense of joy and I can feel a warm sensation go through me. But if pressed to describe any memories, I’d just be grasping at the ephemeral blips that dissolve like a morning fog when the sun comes up. If only I had a stronger mental picture. The only ones that haven’t faded away for good: walking through the back woods, playing dominoes on the floor, and trying to get rid of those damn gophers from destroying their lawn!
I don’t think I ever told him I loved him. That’s just not the way I was raised and it simply wasn’t a word in my vocabulary. It’s since become a word I use daily, and without hesitation. I love my wife, I love my family, I love my dog, I love my friends, I love my job, I love this world. I probably don’t even know you, but I’m sure I’d love you too!