In memory of my grandpa
There are no words to fully express the feeling of loss, to quantify and measure the importance of someone’s life. To realize in the end, you only wish you could have spent more time with him, as anyone would if they knew him. There are those singularities that make such an impact, such an impression, that you cliché them in your mind. He was such a singularity, a standard by which all other could be measured, embodying the name by which he was given. Grandpa!
Our time together was so short, a glance in life, as we lived so far away. Visiting was rare and always too short, but my memories of our time will last forever. In that old Iowa house, planted in the middle of a small town, with its creaky wooden floors and a backyard filled with rows of lawn ornaments, I remember those late nights watching T.V., in black and white, of western cowboys saving the day, being the hero to all. Waking up in the morning to the aroma of jelly toast and eating breakfast across from you. Those times seemed to move at such a slow pace, a relaxed pace, that everything seemed so much more vibrant. Those cold winter snows, so brilliantly white, to those hot, humid summers, to the birds of spring, and the changing of fall, I remember seeing every season.
An old western cowboy, you were the grandpa no one else could be. Looking at your hands, so large in comparison to mine, I could only image the long and wonderful life that you lived. The strength and virtues by which you lived your life like those old western cowboys. A childish image of a grandpa I never truly knew, yet is it not the essence of a man that lasts for a life time, a legacy of memories created? Those memories of smiles of kindness, laughter of joy, and a wisdom only a grandpa could know, he simply seemed to whisper, be happy.
Grandpa, I will always remember you as the cowboy, the hero of the west.