And there he sat, cross-legged, one arm on the rickety frame of the park chair he’d seen so many times before. He was watching the commuters, passers-by, familiar strangers. He liked doing that; he always liked doing that. Every day at 9am he would wave at his fans, people who knew him from the days prior. He was a good man, kind and gentle, never intimidating nor resentful. Should someone not smile back, he’d simply write it off. Just a bad day he would say, hoping at one point in the future they’d return his generosities, even if it be with a simple nod. He never really wanted anything more.
I guess that’s what I loved about him. Occasionally I’d pass him by, just to see the smile on his face. He would shake my hand, pull me close, his brittle fingers comfortable in my strengthened clasp. Like fluid through the rocks, our hands would intertwine; his were weak, mine were strong. We’d nod at one another and he’d give me a familiar grin I’d seen so many times before.
He never said much. He couldn’t really, but he didn’t need words to make you feel like you belonged. I can’t remember the last time he murmured anything other than hello. I guess that was just a byproduct of his condition. I never expected anything more than that warming smile, and I think deep down he knew that. He knew our bond surpassed words, a clasp far tighter than the one we had whenever we shook hands.
I made a habit of seeing him as much as I could, but it never really felt like enough. I always wanted to be with him a little bit more, but I guess chasing the next turn is how it all works in life. When everything is said and done, you’ll always feel like you could have done more.
RIP Grandad; you were always eternal, but I hope this helps.
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