I wish my grandpa was a softer man,
he was the only grandpa I had.
I met him when I was 13. With excitement,
I expected warm hugs and kind stories,
but he was a handshake type of man.
A harsh man. Tired from the grueling
decades of hard work and raising
five children. I believe that he wanted
to be kind, but didn't know how—life
didn't give him that choice.
The only choice he had was to be tough
and tougher. It's been more than a year
since he died, and I remember praying
for him on his deathbed. I asked him
to accept Jesus as his savior. His body shook,
his face lit up, and he was finally, in peace.
Sometimes I like to imagine what my grandfather would've been like if he had an easier life that allowed him to be warm and soft.
I think about our conversations and I think they would go something like this...