3 words I never got to say

“You were a Flying Tiger though, there has to be some story to tell!” Though the red from his hair had long faded, the red in his cheeks, for which he was nicknamed, had not.

“I went through these things so you would never have to,” his voice is strong from such a seemingly fragile man; a fight he had in him until the day he died, or so I’m told.

“Ok Grandpa Red, what about Poland?”

“What about it?” His focus is steady on the foam bubbling over the lip of his beer can, careful to slurp it up before it’s attempted escape.

“Did your parent’s tell you much about it? I mean, you are the first born American in our family, that’s pretty cool.”

“Is it?” His candor strikes me as he sips and continues. “It used to mean something. When your great-grandparents immigrated from Poland, this was the land of opportunity.” He scoffs at the last part, as if he’s made an inside joke with himself.

“Yeah, this is a pretty sad state of affairs right now; not America’s proudest moment, that’s for sure.” We both let out a small sigh, and smile at each other, like long lost friends, happy to still have their similarities; though in a way, I suppose we were. Suddenly, we are both giggling at our alikeness, happy to be in each other’s company.

“Do you want to talk about anything else?” His voice is tired. Not the sleepy, in need of rest tired. The kind of tired you feel in your soul that comes with emmense wisdom.

“Nothing in particular. Can we just sit and watch the sunset?” the question is almost sheepish from my lips. From his eyes to his mouth, his whole face smiles and there we sit, until after the sun fades and the purple twilight dims to the dark starlit sky. Watching. Sitting. Smiling. Tearing. Repeat.

“Hey Grandpa, I love you.”