Ode to My Grandfather
His hands smelled of sun and labour. Since the very first time they held me, they have never been soft. If I had to describe him in just one word, rough would be my best choice.
My grandfather had been a farmer almost all his life, except for a brief parentheses when he worked as a miner. It was very common, at that time, to leave the family behind and go abroad to find fortune.
I like to think that the time he spent digging underground gifted him with the colour of his eyes, as they were as blue as a summer sky.
He was a rough man in his appearance yet his voice was a chime of windbells. I will forever treasure the countless times he had me sitting on
his lap to recount his stories – World War II, his days in the mines, his childhood.
He sang me songs long lost to the wind and taught me games that are my amusement still.
He watched me blossom like a shy moonflower and just when I needed him most, he went for the final journey.
He was my rough, beloved grandfather.