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Letters to Grandpa

Sarina J., Middleton, WI By Sariiiinnnnaaaa, Middleton, WI

My feet hang over the edge of the old wooden dock where I’m perched, my toes barely skimming the cool water. In my hands I hold the last letter I ever received from my grandpa.

When I was younger my grandfather would always bring me out to this exact spot. We’d sit and talk, letting our feet dangle above the water - or, in his case, in the water.

He would bring me out here to tell me stories while we ate vanilla ice cream. He would tell me tales about everything: how he met my grandma, his children when they were young, and maybe even stories from when he was fighting in Vietnam. Nothing was off limits.

I was young, and sometimes I didn’t understand what he was talking about, but to me it didn’t matter.

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