sour patch kids & a coke can

My grandpa used to have this really amazing way of making the most mundane tasks extraordinary.

Like going to the market to pick up ‘necessities’ for tomorrow’s breakfast. My grandma’s idea of necessities was quite different than my grandpa’s—the sole reason my grandma did most of the shopping. If she sent grandpa on a task involving some lack-luster list of essentials, she’d always get more than she bargained for. As my grandpa would walk me down the fancy aisles of the markets, with sweet syrupy jars holding purple and orange, yellow and maroon, the most royal designs carved into the glass—”pick out three!’ he’d say. “I’ll get three and you get three and we should probably get some for Lady Fetts, meet you at the checkout!”

No matter how fast I made my decisions, grandpa would always beat me to the front, hands full of bags of nuts, fresh pastries, boxes of pancakes, ice cream treats, and of course, jars of syrupy treats. “Wow! looks like you picked all the best options. Good job!” grandpa’s pride was the absolute best. It was the only thing I truly hunted for.

When my grandparents decided to join the crew of their friends who bought “snow bird vacation homes”, they bought one in the Caribbean. A small, British Virgin island that held mostly locals and took a good twelve hours full of plane rides, ferries, and taxis to get to. But it was the most exquisite, the most peaceful, the most wondrous of all places. Because my grandparents made it so. That’s just what they did, how they lived— as if every moment were so extraordinary, you had just entered the grandest of all parties.

Growing up, I craved my grandparents. My two favorite, most loving people. That feeling carried into adulthood, leaving me to travel twelve hours worth to find the two of them reading in the sun on my favorite, most exotic, most wonderful beach. And they would spoil me and spoil me and spoil me. The kind of spoiling that leaves you feeling entirely loved, completely wanted, and breathtakingly precious.

And as I got older and learned to live without my favorite dancer, swimmer, syrup shopper, and chef, I have slowly realized just how much of watching my grandpa live rubbed off on me. I never ever look at the price, I shrug at messes, and bring pastries to people on the street. I greet with my arms to the sky and hug like it is both the first and the last time. I am noisy, clumsy, carefree, and honest. I am joy and peace, wonder and sadness, confusion and gentleness all wrapped in the sweaters my grandpa gave me to keep me warm.

I am all the life he loved to live and all the pain that comes with him no longer. Grandpa was everything I love most about this messy, hard life. And having had a front row seat to his life for all of mine, I want to be everything he was to me: life and love.