It hit me… one afternoon, a couple of teens were at the store with an old gentleman I soon realized was their grandfather. The kid hugged him and said I loved you. I envied that long-haired teen bastard, but just swallowed my grief. I was envious cause there aren’t that many memories of both of my grandfathers for me: I mean, one of them died just before I turned 8, and I didn’t see him that often. The other died of cancer when I was 17, and I’m pretty sure he confused me for one or several of my cousins during the remaining years of his life. So there, I had no older version of Dad lying around, no cuddly geriatric to call my own. Although I dedicated my second book to my grandparents from Dad’s side, it still doesn’t cut it enough. Grandpa, where are you?