When I was little, my grandpa and I used to play in the garage and build things. Everything from birdhouses to flashlights in toilet-paper rolls. My grandma always thought that was "unsanitary", which made me want to do it all the more. As much as I know these words have potential to hurt people, I know they have potential to heal. I don't want to paint the world another story book, and I don't want to create some kind of illusion that my life is an unfortunate wreck. I want to share the life, mostly, of my grandfather, with the world. There are some memories that God put on this earth to be shared, remembered, and passed on. His life is one of them, and a very important one at that.

Every night before bed, my grandpa used to read me a book. He'd read it once, twice, three times, as many times as it took for me to fall asleep. He never got angry, or annoyed. He read every word as lovingly as the first. My mom has a friend named Andrea. She believes you have a spirit, and that it lives several lives. Young spirits are unwise, and they're the people who choose to lead lives that aren't what most consider ideal. I wasn't quite sure what to think of some of her beleifs until I heard this one. She says that when a spirit reaches the end of it's life, it becomes an angel. If she's right, my grandpa was an angel. There are so many things to be said about him, I don't even know where to start. Many of the things I know now about him I found out only after his death. He taught my brother and I everything about life, but he never taught us the hardest thing about life- letting go. His death left a void in the lives of everyone who knew him that will never be filled. Memories line the gap, but the pain remains, and some days it feels like the sadness will follow me forever. He wouldn't want that.