I learnt to waltz standing on your feet, you were strong in times when weakness would have been forgiven.
Strenght was probably the word that better described who you were.
Your laugh.

I remember your laugh if I think of you, but it overlapses with the image of you in a hospital bed, eyes wide open and not recognizing me.
The sound of you wheezing.
You telling me you were happy you could see my wedding.
You telling me you were tired.
You mumbling words I cannot understand.

Sadness is a weird territory and I don't have a compass nor a guide.
The endless times you held my hand and squeezed it.
Ginger Ale on Christmas days and a kiss on my forehead.
You so small and fragile, trying to hide your leg with a bedsheet and looking away.

When I was little I used to play in your garden, that garden you nurtured and in which grandma taught me how to make daisy chains.
Not long ago we spoke about your quest for a black rose.
I find it appropriate, in a painful way, that today I was 300 km away, taking pictures of flowers.

But it kills me I didn't take your picture with the camera you gave me, like I promised you I would.

Goodbye grandpa.