Clearly, I have not been holding up my end of the 30 day bargain. Before you start debating on whether to quarter or stone me, please hear this:

I lost a family member last Monday. My grandfather, to be exact. I now have no grandparents left to me on this earth.

Needless to say, these past couple days have been horrible.

I sat here and tried to write something about my grandfather, but it’s very hard. Not that there’s a shortage of things to say about him; God no. I’m just having a bit of a hard time. It’s a weird thing to deal with right now.

So, let me switch gears.

I did find a bright spot in this dreariness. In the passing of my grandfather, I found a reaffirming of myself. Inadvertently, my gramp helped light a fire under my ass. (Thanks, Grampie, I owe you one.)

At the viewing there were many people who I had never met before, but became close to my grandfather in the past years. The hospice workers that took care of him, for example.

When every one of this type of person was introduced to me by my father, three words escaped their mouths that brought tears to my eyes and made my heart stop with pride.

“You’re the writer!”

My grandfather saved every story I wrote and kept it on the kitchen table. Every nurse or old friend that walked through his door was treated to every single one of them. He bragged about me to everyone he knew.

Yes, gramp, I am the writer, and it’s all thanks to you.