Dear Grandpa:

Wherever you are, I hope you are happy. I hope you are among wise men, old souls and angels. I don’t know if you have thoughts of Earth, but there are people here who miss you.

I wanted to tell you about the first pun that I understood had followed the gradual moans after you said something like, ‘Oh you get your mail from a male? I get mine from a female.’ When everyone rolled their eyes, I remember seeing you as the wisest man in the world.

I remember winning Young Authors, having you visit and speak with the speaker. I remember feeling proud to be in a room with so many writers. I remember you nagging me about not sharing what I was writing; teasing me for keeping my romantic novels to myself.

I remember being jealous of my brother who was invited to play chess instead of me. 

I remember not knowing you, talking to you when I had to and not because I wanted to. I remember rudely asking for the remote when Uncle Gene gave us the first season of ‘Lost in Space’ for Christmas.

I remember watching you fall into the embrace of your recliner, the eternal coffee-stained mug resting on the T.V. tray; I remember you typing behind the folding doors even when we invited you to play a game you chose not to, I remember the impeding invasion of polar ice worms, I remember you drying your socks on the space heater. I remember never being able to wake up eartly and get coffee with you and Phil.

I cherish two times with you the most; when I said goodbye and told you that I couldn’t express how much I loved you, and you replied softly, ‘I know’. And last summer when you critiqued and challenged me to write a story about the statue.

I wish I had played more chess with you. I wish I had shown you more of my writing. I wish you would be here to see my first book published, to see me going to the University of Iowa. I wish I had spent more time in your den. I hope someday to have found the peace and confidence you had in the existence of God and our life here.

To feel no resentment that my time is up too.

How much you’ve inspired me; from the plastic sheep that poops jellybeans, your den, your chair of farts and leather, your holey smoking jacket, to the experiences you’ve treasured, the perspectives you’ve sought after, the knowledge that you know nothing.

I hope that you will understand why I took so many books from your den. I hope it isn’t seen as greed but my attempt to discover the stories you found important to keep your legacy to anyone who has read your books. 

I will miss you, I hope only to make you proud and bring more and more people to appreciate your work.

Love,

Abigail Sire