A Time To Remember

Nine years ago tonight, I went to sleep with tears in my eyes. I have never been the same since. The innocent child in me had slowly faded away as a more experienced one came to be.

That night, my grandfather had passed away in his battle with cancer. He was 62 years old. I was 10 going on 11.

It was the first time in my life someone close to me had died. It wasn’t the last either. In a way, it was a lesson – life is short; make the most of every moment.

Nowadays, I don’t really remember a whole lot about my childhood. Mostly pictures and home videos would make up for it. But this much I remember ...

I always called my grandfather "Papa" and he always called me "Shorty." I was his oldest grandchild and the only one he had a nickname for. He had a ranch in his country home that was on Mooney Road. He had a dog named Junior. He had a few others, but that was his favorite. He raised chickens for a living, but he always had an undying love for the beach and for fishing. He lived life on the wild side too.

I remember his beard and his smile. He always tried to make jokes. He had a good sense of humor. I don't ever remember not seeing him smile. He would light up the room on most occassions.

I remember his tattoos. On the back of his right hand, he had a wolf wearing a hat. On his right shoulder, he had an anchor. There were some words nearby the tattoos, but the meanings I don't remember.

I remember his generosity. Every time I visited his house, I always left with something - a watch, a few toy green army soldiers, a fishing reel, his cowboy hat. These have become some of my most valuable treasures.

I remember the last time I saw him. My family went to visit him at his beach house. He was in terrible condition at the time; the cancer was really taking a toll on his body, but not his spirit. He didn't look much like the Papa I knew. I remember being scared at the time, I could barely look at him. Being ten, I didn't really understand what could happen, but I knew whatever it was, I didn't want it to happen.

I remember on that trip, we went fishing with Papa. I caught a fish or two and he caught some as well. We enjoyed fishing as we did a thousand times before. It was just another day at the pier - a good day. Yet that was the last time I ever went fishing.

I remember the last words I heard him spoke. I was in the car, for it was time to go home. He gave a fishing reel to my mom and told her, "Give this to Shorty."

I remember the night he died. It was about a week later. I was in bed sleeping. Mom had woke me up at 8:31pm and told me with tears in her eyes, "Papa died." I didn't say anything as she left the room. I just took a look at the fishing reel and his cowboy hat by my bed as tears silently fell.

Papa was 62 when he passed away. I sure wish he lived to be a lot older, that he was alive today. Yet to this day, I still remember him. I try to live out some of his good characteristics. And I will always continue to have a love for the beach, for fishing and for life. It's part of my Paradise.

I suppose that's his legacy.