To this (those) who never really die.

A moment of life

I have breakfast when his image comes to mind.
I must have been the age that counts on my fingers. It was one of those mornings when I walked into the kitchen and saw him. True to his habit, he sat on a stool facing a small formalica table. I surprised him then with this long sentence that we were saying to act as "Bon appétit! ».
"It's all right. Candy. Good ap' ap'. Enjoy your appetite. I won!"

(Or "We won! according to how quickly the person opposite recites the formula at the same time.
He invented this phrase for us, his grandchildren. I learned it first because I was the first.
He then turned to me. He always had this big smile on his face. The one who made his eyes laugh as he swallowed the slice of toast that he had just dipped in his bowl of latte coffee.
Of all the definitions I have built for myself of happiness, this smile is one.
I was getting closer to kissing her. I could feel her cheeks, soft as they had just been shaved. I could smell the comforting smell of a touch of cologne.
It is surprising when I think of the difficulties he has encountered in his life, that I remember him as sweet.
A few months before my grandfather left this world, I flew to New York for several months. I was on my way to my grandparents to say goodbye. It was only when I left them that I saw her weeping. I saw a tear too alone to be discerned too quickly. I was seeing her, though.
With a frank smile, I came back to hold him in my arms.
So young man, are you crying? Why are you crying?
With a lapel and a too shy smile, he answered:
Because I'm happy for you.

When I think of that phrase, tears come to my eyes. If anyone asks me why at this moment, I would say,"Because I'm happy for us."
He left four months later, at 89. Her age stopped there. And I was there.
I was approaching him while he was living his last day. Did he know that? I think he knew that. He still had that smile looking at me. The same as on all those mornings when he swallowed his bread toast that he had just dipped in his bowl of latte coffee.
I was just saying:
Did you miss me?
And I burst out laughing at her:
Never!

There was always a child in the eyes of my 89-year-old grandfather. He had a sense of humour and wisdom that enveloped me in simple things.
I remember his tranquillity. I respect all the way he has come in his life to stay still. Maybe he wasn't, by the way. Maybe like me, like us, a part of him was overwhelmed by the whirlwind of life.
This morning, in front of my tea, I want to surprise him again.
"It's all right. Candy. Good ap' ap'. Enjoy your appetite. I won!"(I'd like to hear him say with me:" We won!")
I want to love him like we love simple things.
I want to love it as I like looking at trees, architecture, monuments full of history that we do not know or ignore. I want to forget about the subway, work, others, just to observe.
I then concentrate on tranquillity. This tranquillity that offers me to play with words and to lose myself in this big nothing that nobody looks at.
Then I love her.