Today you forgot who I was. You assumed I was my daughter and proceeded to argue with me on who my father was. In a moment of clarity you recounted the adventure that was driving your old Volkswagen while on crutches after exploratory knee surgery to meet me, your first granddaughter at the hospital. You only knew that I was sick and between the knee pain and worry missed the exit to NorthSide Hospital all the while your car was backfiring the whole way. You spoke about how purple my heels were from all the blood draws and told me I was the prettiest baby he’d seen in 24 years. I don’t know what I’ll ever do without you when the world loses the greatest man I’ve ever known. You hung the moon and were the sun and nobody can tell me differently.
No comments:
Post a Comment