To make readers aware, I think I hate my grandfather. Most days I am able to maintain a high level of distaste for him. Why I detest him this much stems back to many reasons, too high in number to count. For this account, readers need to be aware that, vast majority of the time, it pains me to be in the same room as him.

Today, I reflected on why that was. It is Thanksgiving and I am sitting outside, alone, on the garbage box. I am staring at the highway that runs by our house and thinking of the cars as they zoom by; who is driving them, where are they going, etc. It reminds me of a memory that I haven't thought of in an extreme amount time.

I think back to when I was younger, around seven or eight, and my grandfather and I would sit outside on the front step and watch the cars. I can't remember why we did this, we did and it was enough for me as I delighted in spending time with him. When I think of it, it was a brisk day, resembling this one, where I would feel my legs freeze from the stone of the steps. We would sit side by side (perhaps we were waiting on my father but I am not sure of this) and bet on the cars. I would pick a direction and say a red one was coming from there and he would say blue.

I can't remember who was right most often.

The memory may not seem important to most but for me who doesn't have many current good memories of the man I used to worship, it feels as though someone handed me the world. It's a sad world, one that I want to change though I have no idea how to do it.

┬ęThe Last Letter