Poppa

  Last night my maternal grandfather, "Poppa" died.

A sense of calm and relief accompanied the tough news. This man had known more suffering than anyone should.

As I woke on this quiet Sunday, I remembered some of my favorite Sunday mornings on record. My grandpa would come by early in the morning, carrying a white box tied with string. In it were pastries from our favorite local Italian bakery. He would sit at the head of our table with a newspaper, that kind man of few words.

I choose to focus my energy on remembering my grandpa as he was at his best. The man who would hoist me up over his head with little effort. The guy's guy that loved beer from a can, smoking an occasional cigar and grilling out on his deck (while donning an apron). He was at his happiest on the golf course.

There is something beautiful in a life that is complete. My grandpa is no longer a prisoner of his own body. He is now a free man, and able to be remembered as he was at his best. 

My sister, Brittany (Left), Poppa and I (Right) I told him I was "The Hair Fairy"

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