On a September 22, my grandfather was born, a hundred and fourteen years ago. He ceased to exist long before that date, although he lived longer than he had probably expected: ninety six years. He outlived his wife, my grandmother, with whom he had a turbulent marriage, in almost ten years. On the last three years of his life, he wasn´t able to recognize none of us. When he saw his son, my father, he tought he was seeing his own father. He kept on calling: daddy, daddy, and his son would go to him in an attempt to comfort his agonies, his uneasiness. What was he thinking then? We never knew.
My grandfather had a long life, I´m not sure if it was a happy one. He had a harsh childhood, an agitated adulthood due to his personal political beliefs and actions, and lived longer to see the collapse of some of his cherished ideas.
I miss my grandfather dearly. He was not the tender and caring type of person, but he was the only grandfather I met. He was extremely inteligent and had a strange sense of humor, and when I was born, he wrote me a poem. What else could I ask for?
Eighteen years have passed since the death of my grandfather, and I still remember his birthday. I can clearly hear his voice, and I can picture him right in front of his old house walking his dog. And, when I look at my father as he is today, I see a litttle (or a lot, depending on the day) of my grandfather. And it makes me feel better to think that part of him is still around.
