To: Grandad

Dear Grandad,
I went by your place a couple of weeks ago. I cried when I saw the rubble pile where the house used to sit. I wish I would've gone by last year when I thought of it. I can remember how your house smelled. I can picture myself in there- I see that little music box house on the TV and Grandma's pile of National Enquirers on the couch (or davenport, if you prefer.) I can picture the porch with the cherry tomatoes in a pot and bees buzzing. It's always hot in my memories at your house.I remember watching you pulling on your coveralls and heading to the chicken house. And I'll never forget how you always had chocolate for us. And how you tried to trip me with your cane every time I visited. I know my memories are all from a child's point of view. But I also know that when I hear your voice in my mind, there are usually a few profanities thrown in.I wouldn't be embarrassed now if you asked me if I was married yet. Of course, 20 years will kind of kill the joke, huh? I wish I knew your stories. I wish I could sit with Grandma and watch her quilt.I wish I could drive up and see two or three windsocks in the tree in front of the house:And I wish I could go back and sit on the porch with my brother and the dog (old Bob) and hear the voices inside (Mom and Dad's were always loud so Grandma could hear them, and Grandma's was always loud and arguing with you.)But I know time moves on, and honestly I'm at a place in life that I wouldn't trade for anything. Life is good, Grandad. And I know now what you meant about the weeds: Time moves quickly. And kids grow up right in front of your eyes. I love you,
Becky