Dear Papa,

In honor of my grandfather’s funeral today, this is the letter I wrote and read at the service.

As a child, your home was a magical place.  “Going to Papa’s” meant going on an adventure.  It was a place of climbing on tractors, hide and seek in the shed, and four-wheeling in the woods.  Even at 19 years old, this is how I remember you most – our old Honda minivan up on the lift, you and dad underneath, Camden and I chasing each other in the back yard, also being chased by bees.

I believe it was times like these that you were truly happy.  All you needed was a good boat ride and some Bojangles, and you were at peace.  You were never caught up in competition and consumerism; you lived by rural values of amiability, family, and serving your country (a week out of high school, I found out).  You were a man of simple joys, getting to know the people who served your food and always making a joke to the passing nurse, waiter, or stranger. 

I can still hear your laugh after you narrated the first time you babysat me, and even though I’ve heard the story a hundred times, you’d tell it like it was the first, reminding me the pain I caused you as a baby.  You’d laugh and laugh, but always follow up with, “you know I love you right,” every time you told the story, without fail. 

Your life serves as a reminder for me to seek the simple.  You built a life based on what made you happy, and that wasn’t money or materialism.  It is easy to get caught up in what doesn’t matter, but if I could get an ounce of joy that you felt on a daily basis, I would be infinitely happier. 

I will remember you in the simple, happy life that you lived.  I will remember you by yellow cars, baseball hats, porch swings, pac-man, Bojangles, told and retold stories, laughter, airplanes, puzzles, the toys in your cabinet, forehead thumps, el Dorado’s shrimp and rice, grape soda, Smithfield’s, the lake, the smell of smoke, and your powerful, painful, and unbearable flick.  

It’s been a long battle with dementia, but the last time I saw you, you knew who I was.  I said, “see you later Papa” and looking in your eyes, I knew you understood. 

So, I’ll see you later Papa.

Love,

Rachyl, the baby who screamed every time you held her.