Sunday, May 17, 2009

He told me I was his princess.

He told me he would wait for the day that I found my prince, so that he could get drunk with him at my wedding. He gave me so many of those rough whisker kisses of his, that I hid. I only spent my first year with him, and saw him last in the sixth grade. But he always wrote letters and sent pictures, sending me 100 kisses with them. He keeps a blown up baby picture of me hanging on the wall of our house. He always marveled me with the many different languages he spoke to me in that always cheerful voice of his. His cheeks were always rosy from the daily alcohol consumption. He was always working on his beloved drums, or next to his Harley. I don't remember my grandpa as much as I wish I could, but these are the few that I can muster up. All I have now is an old picture of him smiling, holding me, his face beaming with pride. Sometimes I had dreams of him, dreams that turn out to be actually distant memories of when I was only one year old. This is how I will always remember him, and I'll always love him for that, I hope he knows.

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