son of a gun...

When on a morning run, I often give myself a little treat. I stop by the Stonewood Care Center. My grandpa lives there and it's a pretty nice place. Without fail when I walk in the door I am greeted by Daisy. She is a beautiful little, tiny lady who is always decked out in a blouse, jewelry and slacks. Slacks...that's a good word. Makes me want to go buy some just so I can say, "Hey, do you like my slacks?" Anyway, Daisy always has a big smile and tells me the same thing, "I don't know who you are, but I know that I love you." I believe her because I feel it. Then there is my grandpa. He's lost his short term memory and I suspect most of his long term as well. He can't really hear or see very well, but every single time I get close and hug him he smiles so big and hugs me tight and says, "well, don't you look good." Actually, I'm pretty sweaty and dorky while I run.

I was lucky that I got to go out to breakfast this week with my mom and grandpa (above picture) on his 93rd birthday. He must have said it at least twenty times (because he forgets he already said it), "son of a gun, am I really 93? ...that's old."

I didn't know my grandpa very well growing up. I knew stuff about my grandpa but I didn't know him. In his current state of existence he is his core, raw, basic self because that's what he's left with at this point.

False face must hide what the false heart doth know -Shakespeare

A person can pretend to be a lot of things but if all of that is stripped away...who am I? Who are you? My grandpa is radiating love. That's who he is. It's so simple. What a beautiful place to be at the end of his story.