My grandfather and I were close only in that emotional way that girls are close with a grandfather. We didn’t have deep conversations, and it says a lot about my self-imposed isolation and general disinterest growing up that I learned most of what I know about him from reading his book. He believed certain things with every fiber of his being, and it made him happy to do so. When he lived, all I could see were what made us different. Here at the end, I’m thinking about all the wholesome interactions we shared over the years. He was a good and generous person; the kind of man who spent retirement picking up trash off the highway every morning in his bright yellow beetle, even if environmentalism was for weirdos. I suppose I get my outlandish fashion from him, even if we didn’t agree on much else. His positive outlook on humanity is something to aspire to.
September 18, 2019
Purveyor of sass and unsubstantiated rhetoric. View all posts by Marpoo
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