The Greatest Love

I remember the day I first met him. I was still reeling from losing someone I loved very much. My emotions were raw and I was numb with disbelief. I imagine this is how most people feel when someone dies, but I don’t really know, I did know that my life would never be the same again. So much had changed now that he was gone, I would never again feel so loved and accepted by anyone. My best friend in the world was gone from this place; never will I see his face or hear his voice. To be in his presence was to feel calm and complete. I can remember we used to take these incredible walks on Sunday afternoons. He would pick me up in his old pickup and I would run out to jump in, excited to go on another adventure. He would let me shift the gears on the impossibly long stick shift and after a few grinding attempts I would find it and lock it into place. Once at our destination, we would grab our old gnarled walking sticks out of the back of the truck and make our way along the seemingly unexplored trail. It would be a beautiful summer day; at least that is how I always see it when I think back on it now. The sun would shine down and warm our backs as we traveled slowly along the trail. We walk side by side, at first not saying a word, wrapped in a comfortable silence. The soothing sounds of the outdoors, the scurrying creatures of the woods running from our footsteps, the trees swaying on the light breeze. We walk along on this glorious day and little by little we begin to talk. I tell him everything that’s gone on in my little world over the past week, running on and on. He does not stop me; he just listens to every word. He hears me like no one else can or will. When my talk winds down he tells me things about his life. There is so much to know, his life has been so rich and his experiences so vast. I want to know every part of it, hear about everything, and picture it in my mind. I ask questions, so many questions, and he patiently answers them all. When we come to the clearing on the mountain side we brush off the two flat rocks that we made into our chairs on our first trip to this place. He reaches into his pants pocket and hands me out his small pocket knife, the one that’s my favorite. I begin to whittle the handle of my walking stick while he pulls out his special camera with the long lens. He takes pictures of the river way down below us, the boats like specks on the water. I’m busy with my knife as we sit and enjoy the serenity of this place, the sweat on our backs drying in the sun. All too soon we have to pack up our things and head back down the trail, we have dinner waiting for us at home and we can’t be late. Those days are bittersweet in my thoughts, I miss them now more than anything, and I wish I had appreciated them more at the time. I guess that happens when you’re just a kid and life seems like it will always stay the same, that things will never shift and the people we love will always be there.

I sat there that day, the day I met him, thinking about these things as the tears slid down my cheeks. I looked into those little eyes and felt his small heartbeat beneath my hands. I am so happy for this gift but yet so terribly sad that he couldn’t be here to see him. I had dreamed about this moment, always with him here, watching him hold my precious son and rocking him gently in the old worn recliner. It is at this moment that I look up to the ceiling of my sterile little hospital room and begin to pray. “My dear Grandpa, please look out for my little baby boy. Walk beside him as you walked beside me; whisper those same stories into his ear. Tell him all the important things about life as you told them to me...all those years ago.”