Granddaddy and Bootsie

After a recent lunch with my grandfather, I felt the need to write this:

He speaks lovingly of her -- how she looked beyond his three kids and ex-wife and the fact that his extra money came from shooting craps and betting on the ponies and saw the potential of what he could be. He tells me that she accepted a carbon ring, no diamonds in the thing, that a “will you marry me?” was all she wanted.

He talks of meals cooked with love and the mothering she gave to his children, never being able to have any of her own. He recounts details of the first house they called home and the bed they shared, once fit for paupers that he traded in for one built for royalty. He told me about the care she took with her words and the way she brought him to God.

We share stories of our memories of her and the pain in our hearts still as fresh as the first day, when our screams matched octave for octave and volume for volume when she went home to meet her maker.

After forty years together the connection is as strong as ever though she is buried and gone. He tells me he stills misses her and I still miss her too. A love pure, a love real, a love enduring

Love Realized

From the lady’s side of the bed