Every time she prays at dinner, she still whispers, “Help Grandpa not to die.”
He’s been gone over a month now. 48 days, to be exact. But her 3-year-old heart still believes.
Yesterday, I came around the corner in Tim’s parents house and there she was in front of his portrait, talking to him. Her baby blues were looking at him intently, one foot in front of the other.
She looked up at me, questions in her expression, “I miss grandpa.”
So do I, sweets. So do I.