Bear with me, my dear readers, as I’m about to tell you a story about a wonderful man who I’ve just lost. I ask you to bear with me only because it’s difficult to write as tears are already beginning to fill my eyes, with only having written two sentences.

For those of you that didn’t know, my dear readers, my grandfather was one of the most influential people of my life. Just to attempt to summarize how truly amazing he was is damn near impossible, because there’s so much to say. Anyone that knew him could attest to this statement.

I’m not going to tell you he was a happy man with an infectious smile, because anyone can say that about him. It was obvious. What I’m going to tell you is a story about a grandfather and his youngest grandchild, a story that’s at least ten years old. This story, a cherished memory of mine, is the basis for the relationship between my grandfather and myself.

Growing up, I seemed to be sick a lot. Strep throat, pneumonia, colds, the usual stuff a child tends to get in grade school. After overcoming my sickness, whatever it was, my pap and I would get breakfast. We had a tradition. He would pick me up in his blue pick-up truck, put country music on the radio, and we’d drive the 15 minutes to our local Shoney’s for breakfast. But let’s rewind a second, back before he’d pick me up at my house. He’d come in the house and greet me with the biggest hug I think I’ve ever received. Each hug got bigger and warmer, as did my appreciation for them. He’d ask me if I was ready to leave, help me get my coat on, and put his arm around me as we walked out the garage door. He’d open the truck door for me and give me a boost, being that the step into his truck was much higher up than my legs could reach. In retrospect, I realize I base most of my expectations of men’s level of chivalry off what my pap taught me.

Arriving at breakfast, pap would always be greeted by the workers at Shoney’s with such a happiness and comfort that I couldn’t ever stop smiling. Everyone loved him. And yes, I do mean everyone. From the hostesses, to the waitresses, to the servers behind the breakfast bar, they always greeted pap with a warm smile and a “how ya doin there, Tim?” He’d always tell them that he was having a great day because he was getting breakfast with his “beautiful granddaughter,” and his “Breakfast Buddy.” Cue the blushing and smiles from my part. And yet again, here I am realizing what he taught me about how I should be treated.

We’d always order the same things. For a drink, he’d order coffee (don’t forget the cream) and I’d have chocolate milk. For food, he and I both would get the breakfast bar. He’d drift toward the sausage, biscuits and gravy, bacon, and eggs. I’d have bacon, eggs, and French toast sticks. Pap and I would eat our food, occasionally exchanging jokes and conversation about school or gymnastics or our family. After our plates were clean, I’d go back to the bar by myself and get a plate of fruit for the two of us. Cantaloupe, grapes, honeydew, strawberries, the good stuff. I hated honeydew, but I always got it for him because he loved it. Everything would pretty much be equally divided, except the strawberries. He knew how much I loved them, so he left the final one for me. He’d pay for the check and we’d leave our booth by the window.

What lies behind this story is what I cannot describe to you, my dear readers. I cannot describe to you how he looked at me, the smile behind his eyes. I cannot describe to you how charming his laugh was. I cannot describe to you how I knew he secretly loved when I got sick, because that meant Breakfast Buddy time. I cannot describe to you how important these memories are to me. All I can do is tell you and hope that you get a sliver of understanding for the special bond I had with him.

My pap became sick about two years ago, he was diagnosed with lung cancer. Throughout the whole process, he was smiling, joking, and acting very similar to his old self (no pun intended, but in a way, pun totally intended). We celebrated his birthday in his late 70’s and he told us it was just another anniversary of his 29^th birthday. He still loved to play pinochle with all of us and talk smack about the other team’s members. But that’s just who he was.

The one thing they don’t tell you about death is that the memories get more vivid after your loved one is gone. Each of these memories has come back to me over the past week since he’s left us here on Earth, as if they were happening right in front of me. They always say everyone reacts to death differently, but the memories come back vividly to everyone, no matter how you handle death.

I woke up on Tuesday, January 10^th, feeling completely normal. I didn’t wake up worried if that day was going to be the day I lost my Breakfast Buddy. I didn’t worry that day was going to be the day I got the phone call I had been dreading every day since I got back to school. I didn’t worry about any of it, because I don’t think I was ready to admit that it could’ve happened any moment. I wanted to believe he had more time.

Over the past week, I’ve come to terms with my pap’s departure. I’m completely okay with it. And some of you might be scolding at me, but, again, bear with me. I’m okay with it because he’s not in pain anymore. He’s not suffering and struggling to breathe. He’s in a better place, as cliché as it may sound. Not only is he in a better place, but I’ve gained a guardian angel. I’ve got someone watching over me, reminding me to take advantage of every opportunity I can, to tell my friends, family, and other loved ones I love them, because I don’t know when it’ll be the last time I get to.

In loving memory of my Pap, Tim Ryan.

February 14^th, 1937 – January 10^th, 2017

Rest in Peace

I love you.