The Childhood Visits to My Grandfather I Never Questioned — Until Adulthood Answered Them
When I was seven, visiting my grandfather was part of my weekly rhythm. We’d walk from the corner shop to his little house, my hand wrapped around his like I was the one keeping him safe.
Inside, everything followed the same pattern. He would hold my hands, study my face, and smile before pouring us two glasses of grape juice. He didn’t talk much, but his attention made me feel calm and protected. To me, it was simply our quiet tradition.
As I grew older, life sped up. School, friends, responsibilities—I stopped visiting as often. When I did, he seemed more distant, more silent. I told myself it was just age.
After he passed, regret settled in. I wished I had shown up more. Still, I treasured those memories.
Years later, my mother told me the truth.
Back then, my grandfather was already losing his memory. He forgot many things—but he never forgot I was coming. Holding my hands and studying my face was his way of fixing me in his mind. The grape juice helped him take his medicine, and by sharing it, he turned fear into love.
What I thought was routine was devotion.
He wasn’t just greeting me. He was memorizing me—before time could take me away.
