Paternal Grandfather

I often find myself wishing I could sit down with my grandfather again, just to talk. There’s a quiet ache in those moments, thinking of all the conversations we never had—stories he didn’t share, questions I didn’t know to ask. He was a man of depth, shaped by a world I’ll never fully understand, and I regret not soaking up more of his wisdom when I had the chance. Missed opportunities linger like shadows, don’t they? The things we’d say if we could turn back time.

When that longing hits, I catch myself staring in the mirror. It’s not just my reflection looking back—it’s the traces of him. The way my eyes crinkle when I smile, or the stubborn set of my jaw. I see him in me, in the values he instilled, the strength he modeled. I’ve tried to carry those forward, to become a man who honors his legacy. I hope he’d see that. I hope he’d be proud. Sometimes, in the quiet of that moment, it feels like he’s still there, nodding across the years, telling me I’m doing alright.