I love to write. It feels inborn, like something I am truly meant to do; like something that was pumped into my veins passed down from older generations, inherited from someone great who loved to read and write before me. I acquired this passion for literature from my Grandfather.

I call my grandfather, "Grandfather." Not Gramps or Grandpa—just Grandfather. He stands with a presence of class and tradition, smiles with grace and sophistication. His bookshelves are packed with the classics and his mind is stuffed with sentences from his favorite books; lines from his favorite poems.

My Grandfather is smart. He graduated from the University of Pennsylvania with an English degree, but after graduation, as "two roads diverged," he turned toward a path of medicine. My Grandfather is a surgeon. While he didn't take the path that led to a career in literature, that passion stuck with him, refusing to leave his side, and supplementing the success he attained as a doctor.

I strive to take the "road less traveled by" like my Grandfather did—the road that fosters a multitude of endeavors. My Grandfather never compromised one passion for another. He melodically stitched literature into his life as a surgeon.

I wear my Grandfather's jacket, sometimes. It's green and worn, warm and oversized—it fits like a hug. When the hood is on my head, words whisper into my ears; Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson, Maya Angelou. The warmth and wisdom of these famous writers are sewn into the seams of the old jacket. When my hands reach into the pockets, feeling the cozy fur lining, my fingers fumble with the prose of Charles Dickens and Jane Austen.

My Grandfather also loves to sail—another passion we share. As my sail whips in the wind, howling with stories—famous ones and ones that have yet to be written—I'll always think of my Grandfather.

As saltwater sprays into the cockpit, splashing with the alliteration of the sloshing salty sea, I'll feel inspired. When I return to harbor, tying up the mainsheet and cleating off the bow line, I'll rush to grab a pen and paper and scrawl out the melodies the ocean sang to me; the tales my Grandfather has told me.

My Grandfather once gave me a collection of Robert Frost poems. Inside the front cover, my grandfather inscribed, "In heaven it is said that 'the writer of prose can only step aside when the poet passes.'" Well, in heaven, Grandfather, everyone will step aside when stricken with your strong presence of infinite insight and your unmatched collection of experiences. I am so proud to have inherited your love for literature.

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.

And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.

For this is love and nothing else is love,
The which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends He will,
But which it only needs that we fulfill.

-Robert Frost, "A Prayer in Spring"