He was finally going to get to visit. This had been a long time coming, years in fact. Through a fortunate circumstance, here he was, almost two thousand miles from where he lived. Arriving late in the afternoon, the office was getting ready to close, though the grounds would stay open. The secretary found the information, pulled out a map and marked the spot. When he found the right area, he admired the scenery around him. To the West, the thick stand of trees blocked the view of the Missouri River. The North, East and South were grassy knolls dotted with headstones. He headed up the East hill. One, two, three, four rows up. Count six headstones over. Here was a man who had been proud, talented, and had a volatile temper, much like himself. Here was a man who had fought in a World War, practiced a valuable trade as an electrician, and had been cut down in the prime of his life. Here was his grandfather. He introduced himself, told a little about his life. The more he talked, the easier it became. He told his grandfather about the man's only child, the son who was also a father. He talked about siblings. As the evening gently rolled through the trees that blocked the river view, he talked and talked. There was so much to tell: stories that had been passed down, events where he had participated or at least been present. He stretched out on the grass. He told his grandfather how he regretted not having the chance to meet him in life. He told him how they'd been compared, how the similarities had been seen, both good and bad. Then he listened. He lay quietly as wave after wave of emotion washed over him. There was happiness at meeting one of his grandchildren. There was pride that swelled and almost shimmered with light at how well his boy had done. There was amazement at hearing about some of the places lived, trips taken, events in life. There was sadness, and a touch of bitterness, too: the regret at not having lived to be a part of it. Too soon, it was dark and time to go. He was only mildly surprised that he had to wipe his eyes. He thanked his grandfather, and told him that if there was any way possible, he'd visit again. Driving away, he felt both lighter and exhausted. He didn't wonder about what had been real, what had been imagined. What mattered was the connection, a connection he hoped would last.

Granddad, your style. Your style is more complex than anyone knows. I cannot explain your outfits. I gazed at a few old pictures, from the last fifty years. And your style, your outfits are the only challenge. Who has a more complex style than you? Granddad, how do these pictures stay together? How do you keep all of them? How do they remain in the old grocery bags you put them in so many years ago? Did your mother expect for you to take me in all those years ago? Caring more about me then you did about your own life. Or the number of suits you gave away and threw out to accommodate for the space I needed? The pairs of leather and snake skinned boots you departed with, at the last minute? Did she see how much of an impact I made on your life? On your style? Granddad, did she see how wide you opened the door for me to walk in all those years ago? Did she see the jeans you wore, the knit sweater you graced, and the macaroni bracelet you wore to keep me happy? Did she see how much of an impact I made on your life? On your style? *** In the room staring at you. You fastened your watch around your wrist. You spritzed your cologne on yourself, the rain and forest like scent drifted in the air. You are now ready to go stepping. I stood in the doorway, my tiny figure getting lost with the giant furniture. I rested on the cold doorknob, in my light pink pajamas and a pink silk bonnet on my hair to match. After giving me a simple kiss on the cheek, you rushed out of the door. The hurt in my eyes as you left; time wasn't yet comprehensible, the two to three hours you were gone felt like a lifetime. I watched you through the living room window. As you stepped into the car, you gazed up at me and watched the single tear roll down my cheek. That night was the last Sunday you went out stepping. *** Three picture stared back at me. The first was from 1970, you dressed in pressed black slacks, a crisp white dress shirt with a black cardigan on top. Your necklace peeking through, your watch and ring shining. You smiled into the camera. Your sister next to you smiling as well. The second was from 2008. You dressed in slightly worn jeans, a new sweater, and your new felt shoes. Your watch face still shined, but the band was worn out. You smiled down at me, as I smiled up at you. I sat on my tricycle, riding in circles. You sat on the steps, watching me, laughing and giggling at my happiness. The third, 2016. I stood next to you. I wore my brand new white dress and my brand new cream shoes. A pearl necklace adorned my neck with matching earrings. You stood next to me. You wore an old, worn tee shirt and jeans with a small hole at the bottom of the left leg. Your watch sat dully on your wrist. You smiled down at me, as I smiled at the camera.

Everyone knows this feeling. It's a kind of magic. But what does create it? The answer is quite simple: our family's love, understanding, a kind word. This is a gift that has no price at all. And it's the best. When I meet you, your eyes always shine and I can see this magical light, my dear grandfather. How wise, calm, responsive you are. I've never seen your anger or hatred. The world needs more people like you. You're 82 years old now, but your soul is really young. You smile even at problems, and that smile can heal so many broken hearts. You dedicated your life to millions of children, who went to school. During these 50 years of your career, you inspired your pupils and encouraged them to think unusually, to be creative. It turns out that physics and astronomy are really interesting to learn! You have always thought that every child is individual. I feel incredibly lucky, because you are the main teacher in my life. When I was small, you took me to the park and told me different stories, fairy tales. Your hands were warm and soft. I was sitting on a swing while you taught me to count. My golden days. We looked at the stars and they shone so brightly. The most important treasures for you are books. You've been collecting a huge library and sharing it with me. I inherited this love. Every book has its own smell, history, its own heart. It seems like you travel through chapters and feel emotions of characters. You can laugh with them, cry or hate. For example, philosophical books show us a picture of life. These ideas will never lose the power as our human nature remains unchangeable for entire centuries. Thinkers' words describe our reality. It's a wonderful chance to gain knowledge and open your mind. Limitation exists only in our consciousness. Grandpa, you've always said that self-education and self-improvement is the best way to achieve your dream life. It's necessary to learn constantly something new during your life. Stay curious, don't be afraid of the new horizons. Your example proves it, motivates. You were born in a poor family, had no books. You used to sleep almost on the ground and write on the old pieces of paper. There were hard years after the Second World War. Later you walked miles to borrow some books. In spite of all these obstacles you entered one of the most prestigious universities in our country and became a student of the famous professors. I remember those words: your purposefulness and hard work decide everything. Your favorite game is chess. It's the gymnasium of the mind. A perfect way to develop logical and analytical skills. As for me, the game reflects our society. Black or white spaces, black or white pieces. A pawn can become the queen. The king is strong because of his guard, but his golden crown won't save him. The strong pieces stand behind the pawns, but their destiny depends on the players. The game can last only on a bounded board, and then comes «zugzwang» - it means «no escape». In the end, all kings and pawns go into the same box. It's like in life, isn't it? You suffered a stroke in 2012. Your life was on the line. I was scared, grandpa. I was afraid of losing you, dark colors began to appear in my eyes. My God, no. Fortunately, you stand on your feet again. Your sense of humor is alive. Those days you were so weak, but wanted to solve mathematical problems. Today you still read complex academic literature and memorize poems. This love of life has won. Your kindness has returned to you as a boomerang, granddad. All I want is to save your health. Live long. I still can't accept how short our life is. Why can't we turn back the clock? We have one scenario, one way, one fate. One day a station will be final for us, and we will not be able to come back. After all, everyone of us deserves its own finish. Seconds turn to minutes, the minutes turn to hours, the hours to days and the days to years. Time is an impetuous stream of water that will flow out to the last drop. The stars can live for billions of years, but a child can only live for a few months. Do you manage your time properly or not, it kills you in the end. It lasts forever, so our lives are an ordinary thing for it. Grandpa, I can't imagine that you won't be home one day and I won't hear your voice. No, it's too painful. Every day I pray for your health. I'll continue to make you happy, we'll do everything possible for our happy moments. I'm very grateful to you. On a summer night you take your telescope and look at the stars. You seem like a wizard who understands the mystery of the starry sky. And it's so boundless, charming. The stars are bright as always. They are silent and won't open the secrets of the Universe to us. There are things that we must not know about. But if we believe, we can notice miracles around us. Yes, even a new life is a miracle. ‘Grandpa, will the weather be sunny tomorrow?' ‘The most important thing is to keep the sunshine in our souls!'