A love letter

When I was twelve years old, my grandfather, my mother's father, died. He had been ill for over year. He had been a carpenter all his life, and for years before it was found to be harmful, worked with asbestos. He died of asbestosis. Grandfather, or Grandpa OJ, as my cousin Robert called him, was from Canada. I have a very vivid memory from when he was ill, of visiting in the hospital when his family from Canada made the trip down to visit. I remember exactly how he said firmly, with his French-Canadian accent, "This is my granddaughter." The light in his eyes was palpable. He died a few weeks after this. I didn't know for some time why that memory stood so strong for me.

My grandfather had an eighth-grade education, but he was smart. He had a few strong beliefs: educating oneself (he read the paper cover to cover every day after work with his tea), tolerance (I love my mother's story that of all her friends' parents, he was the only one that accepted her gay best friend, without comment-and remember, times were different back then!), the value of a hard day's work (he never missed a day until he got sick), but most of all, he believed in family.

A few years after he died, my mother sat me down and told me our family secret. Grandpa OJ was not her or my aunt's biological father, and so was not my biological grandfather.. My grandmother had been married before she married Grandfather. Uncle David was his biological son, but there was no blood connection between Grandfather and my mother, auntie Beth, my cousins Robert and Mark(the other cousins weren't even born yet), or me. But he was my real grandfather. He loved me. He doted on me. Every day I see the toy box he built me for my first Christmas. "Built by Grandpa, December 25" it says on the inside. Robert and Mark each have one too.

My grandfather visited me last night. Every once in a great while, he visits my aunt and myself. I'm not sure why we are so lucky to have this happen, while the rest of the family does not get to have this miracle happen to them. But Grandfather visits me in my dreams. It is real though, I know that he is the one who chooses to come to me, when I need him. Last night, I was in an old house, similar to the one that my mother grew up in. They was some scary dream stuff going on, with bad guys after me. But my grandfather was there and he saved me. In my dream, he died to save me. Then, in my dream, I found a secret room that had belonged to Grandfather. It was full of pictures, notes, letters, diplomas, and all sorts of other family documents. All of which were of my mother and myself.

When I awoke, I was still processing the dream. Then I looked at the calendar. April 12. My grandfather died 21 years ago today. I know why he visited me last night. To let me know that he could not have loved me more if I had been his blood grand-child. That he loved me fiercely, and was proud of me. That he would have done anything for me.

I love you, Grandfather. I miss you. I wish that you were here. I feel bad for my cousins who never knew you. Robert and I are the only ones who remember you. You taught me the value of education, and pride in my work, and tolerance. But, most importantly, you taught me the value of family and unconditional love. I will always love you, and will always be thankful that you were my Grandpa OJ.