Memories of my Grandfather

Sometimes when the whole house is still asleep, I will creep downstairs and read in the orange glow of my small kitchen light. I will pour myself a cup of coffee, settle into the quiet of my house, and just lose myself in whatever book I am reading.

Later when I unfurl myself from my hunchback sitting position as I simultaneously realize that the sun has come up I remember this-

Sometimes in the still dark early morning, I would creep out from beneath my Rocky and Bullwinkle sheets and peer out into the darkened hallway of my grandparent’s house. The sounds of my grandmother snoring quietly filled the space down at the end of the hall. Peering down the other end of the hall would always be one constant thing. The golden light over the kitchen table that would encircle my grandfather as he sat hunched over a paperback novel. A steaming cup of coffee would be sitting beside him and only the sound of a page turning could be heard. Sleepily I would pad into the kitchen and quietly take a seat at the table next to him. Just as quietly he would always greet me with a, “Morning, Tiger.”

Without a word, I would observe everything about him and the area bathed in the kitchen light. From the black coffee in his mug to the gleam of his glasses and the design of the book cover, I wanted to take it all in. In a little while, the house would be alive with my grandmother making breakfast, the sounds from the nearby television and the voices of my still-at-home uncles getting ready to start their day.

I loved that quiet time with him. Each time I now get the chance to grab a morning just like that I feel somehow that he is with me. His spirit is humming in the air around my own kitchen. The orange glow of the overhead light circling me as I sit bent over a book with my own dark coffee steaming next to me.