Fries

I’m sitting here watching my grandma eat fries during lunch and getting nostalgic remembering the way in which my grandpa used to eat fries.
He’d always get “stuck” with the fries my grandma doesn’t like – the limp ones, burnt ones, runt ones. And he’d always play with them on the table, unable to see anything clearly due to his poor eyesight, he’d pick the fries up, twirl them around, and bang them as if to produce drum sounds.

As I’m thinking about him, I’m thinking about how I’d visit my grandparents while in college. I’d come to see them every few Sundays. My mom would text me, advising me not to come home because my grandparents weren’t in the mood to go out, but I’d come by anyway. I’d sneak up quietly to my grandparents’ bedroom and I’d say hi to my grandpa as he lazily napped in his bed. I’d kiss him on his cheek and he’d almost immediately pop up, excited to see me. Even if he was tired or feeling down, he’d enthusiastically say, “OK! Amy’s here! Let’s go out!”
He loved spending time with family, especially his grandkids. At that point, even if my gma still wasn’t in the mood to go out, he’d convince her that grandkids were important and they’d not see us often.

It occurred to me today that I miss him more than I’ve allowed myself to admit. It was nice letting myself cry a bit and reminisce.

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