Current mood: numb
He died this past March but I keep thinking about the little things. I remember his laugh, the way he'd lean back and squint his eyes and shake while he chuckled. I remember the white t-shirt, blue jeans and cowboy boots he always wore. His rough hands, worn from years in the garden. His dark, thick hair. How he'd sit at the end of the kitchen table and peel a potato or apple with the knife he always kept in his pocket. The mornings when we visited the little house in Tennessee the family would sit and have coffee, he always drank his coffee black. The days he's spend tending his garden with his dog at his side. The nights when we'd all sit at the table and play cards and eat saltines with peanut butter. The workshop in back of the house (that was always locked) with the swing and the table and all the things he made. His rough, gravely voice and the way he'd say "yun't to?" and "gitonouttahere." How he had no fear and we'd watch him kill snakes for us as kids so we could play outside safely. His black truck, and the creek that runs by the house and the days he'd zip around in his 4-wheeler or the lawn mower. The smell and the feel of his house when he was in it. The day he let Damon drive his car. The birdhouse he made for me because my mother bought presents for everyone and forgot about me. The deep hole he made in the creek when we were kids so we could go swimming on those hot summer days.
The last time I came down to see him, he still remembered me. The night he died I had just fallen asleep on the couch across from him. There were ninteen people in the house that night, and only three stayed up. He waited for it to be quiet. I like to remember healthy grandpa. I miss my grandpa.