The First is Sweetest

Today is the first anniversary of my grandfather's death. He was a man with personality but also personae. Everyone who knew him has a strong impression of him, and in our family there are conflicting views of who he was, who he wanted to be, and how he would like to be remembered. I try to recuse myself from these disagreements; he sometimes liked to deal in absolutes and stereotypes but I cannot pretend that he embodied them and, at the end of the day and right to the end of his life his opinions and characteristics were as many and as subtle and as contradictory as any man's, and moreso. As an engineer, he had a good grasp on things that were immutable, and he knew he was not one of them. Since I lived in his house and was, in a way, the last of his children, perhaps I did see his definitive character but, had he lived a day longer, it would have been his right and prerogative to surprise me.

I get to keep the moments we spent together, the things he said to me. They are only a part of who he was, but they are mine now and no one can tell me they are not real.

This sketch is the only tribute I could think to make to him today. Grampie and I used to have coffee together, but he always had a glass of water first thing. More than once he told me "Cara, nothing tastes better than the first glass of water in the morning. Gimme a glass of cold water, nothing all day tastes sweeter."

This is my first glass on this first anniversary; I chose one of my more complicated pieces of glassware and admit I agonized over it a bit, but it was no less than he deserves. I miss you, "Gampie," this and every morning.