When I was about nine years old, after he died, my family had to paint the walls where he had marked how tall his grandkids had grown; now other people live there. Every Christmas, family event, every visit to the house, and every hug exchanged, I cherish as the sweetest memories of my grandpa. We shared ice cream on the back porch that wrapped around the house and drew pictures of our big family with chalk on the cement driveway, reaching from the garage half way down the end of the concrete drive.

Two houses down from mine in a small blue house lived a short, sweet, old man who even several other little kids called “Grandpa.” I always walked up to his doorstep with excitement, looking forward to sitting in the brown lift chair and running around with his walker. As I approached the door and it slowly opened just before the doorbell was even rung, the man with enough hugs and kisses to last a lifetime appeared. Before exploring around the house, Grandpa had to see how much taller his great grandkids had grown since the last time he had seen them even if we were measured the day before. After putting the mark on the wall, we’d run to the kitchen and slide across the bright orange floor that was covered in a brown floral design then to the ice cream freezer that was always full of yummy surprises.

The house smelled of a nursing home and of food that someone had been cooking for Grandpa. The living room was full of old records on the walls to be played on the record player that was kept in a secret chest so the dust wouldn’t find it. Grandpa grabbed his favorite record and set out the record player and tried to set it up but was unable by himself. Then, he danced. He was quite the character. We laughed. Helping Grandpa with anything was not a chore. When Grandpa needed help with something, he did not ask. I knew he needed it, so I helped. When other people visited, they helped Grandpa, too. Visitor helped him put groceries away, especially since he had trouble reaching the top shelf of his pantry, and we even helped fold the laundry.

On Sundays at church in the second row, on the end of the pew, one seat over Grandpa sat, and he never moved seats because when Grandma was alive that was her favorite place to sit. He did not ever want to sit in a different place after she passed. When songs were sung, he was the loudest. When he agreed with the message or what was being preached, he yelled, “Amen.” Everyone always knew when he was sick because during the service Grandpa’s nose whistled. He had lung cancer.

Grandpa was very sick for a long time, and since I was younger, it was hard to understand that the grandpa who lived just two houses down was getting worse and worse with every day that went by. After June 5, 2005, no one was greeted with hugs and kisses at his door. When the news spread that Grandpa had gone to heaven, I couldn’t believe that I couldn’t just walk two houses down and be greeted with hugs and kisses like any other day.

When we went to the funeral home, I asked, “Can I draw Grandpa one more picture?” I remember hearing the most comforting word from one of my relatives: “He will always be with you, and don’t forget that the picture you gave him is his favorite.” When I was finished drawing, I put it with him in his casket. On the way to the cemetery, every emotion hit me. I was mad at the world that he was gone. I miss him. I will always remember the man who greeted me with hugs and kisses, the man who marked my height on his wall and played records for me: my grandpa.