At home when he watched TV, he’d always have one leg hiked up on the arm of his chair instead of the floor, wiggling his toes occasionally. When he had a walker, he used it the way people use ottomans or La-Z-Boys. At home and in the hospital, I’d always take my shoes off. He’d make fun of whatever toenail polish color I was wearing and (if I was close enough) randomly put his (always) cold feet on my feet.
Check out my post in Good Men Project: "No Smiling on Command"
There was always a war going on when it came to who got more almond cookies at our favorite restaurant: Chi Tung. And I still laugh at him refusing to listen to me after I tried to wrestle a forkful of wasabi out of his hand. (Yes, Grandad, there are foods that are too hot. You had to learn the hard way.)
I could go on for days sharing stories about the two of us. He is my grandfather. My friend. My relationship counselor. My mechanic. My financial adviser (who despised everything about credit cards). My wordsmith. My security guard. My favorite non-professional comedian. My favorite fashionista, who could wear a top hat and freshly polished dress shoes better than anybody I know.
I’d told him “I love you” quite a bit. His response was usually “uh huh” or a “love you too” every blue moon. But in June 2017, I was lying down and reading a book on his bed while he dozed in and out of sleep. And he turned to me to say: “I know you love me a whole lot.” This is true, but I wanted to know why he felt like telling me that out of the blue.
I said, “What makes you say that?” His response: “Because there is no way in the world you could not love me a little considering the massive amount of love that I have for you.” And then he said, “But whatever you do, don’t paint my toenails blue like yours.”