Letters to Grandpa
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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