Today's Entry is from a Guest Blogger...my daughter Emily. This is the unedited version of a story she was asked to write about someone and the effect that they had on her.
His name is Howard. But to me he was always Grandpa, not Howard. When I was younger we would always go visit him. We’d pull up his long driveway, to the cozy shelter she shared with his wife, Margaret. When I walked in the first thing I could smell was the lingering scent of the cigarettes he had quit smoking. The first thing I could hear was the cough of the cancer we knew wasn’t going away. Though he knew his months were numbered he always had a smile on his face for his son, daughter-in-law and grandchildren.
He told us stories, some funny some sad, and many in between. We would just sit and talk sometimes, me waiting impatiently looking at the time. I was little and I wanted to get away from the adult chatter.
Now looking back, I wish I would’ve spent more time with him. That final day I spent listening to him talk couldn’t have gone faster. His voice was raspy and sometimes he stopped to catch his breath. But I knew this was the last time, so I sat quietly and listened.
It was getting dark and it was time for us to head home. Leaving him was the hardest thing I will ever experience. But I have comfort knowing that I finally said what I wish I could’ve said sooner. “I love you Grandpa” I said trying my hardest to hold back my tears. “I Love you too Emily” he replied.
I don’t know if he fully understood that that small connection had made a big impact on me. Even if it was short and sometimes shaky I will always remember the relationship I had with my Grandpa. Not Howard.
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