It’s ironic that I know all these stories about my moms father and uncles and aunts and their struggles and stuff.
But the one man I lived with for so long. My grandpa. My dad’s dad. I know so little about. And he’s the one I really wish I knew more about. I was too young to remember his stories. I know so little. And that’s what I regret the most. Not being to remember his voice when he told me stories. That’s what will always hurt the most. I miss you grandpa