Her grandpa is a small, silver-haired man who also lives in my neighborhood, in a long, wide brown house next to a field with a barn that Davey, Robert and I used to hold vigils in with potato chips. This old man was a home teacher to my family until I was about ten, bringing me birthday cards covered in teddy bears and candy and giving me big hugs and letting me draw pictures in the brown rows of carpet at his feet in my family's living room. He listened to me play the piano.
He was married to the most beautiful little woman, even tinier than he was, no more than five feet tall and no more than ninety pounds--she was brunette and I never heard her say something above a whisper. I remember when I was very young, she would press her cool fingers to the sides of my face when I would pass her in the halls at church. The old man, her husband, loved his wife so much. He would talk about her often and many times they walked quietly alongside each other.
Eventually, she passed away, melting peacefully into the walls of their home. He was composed, but walked as though he wasn't quite sure where he was. He was missing his half, his wife, and it was hard for everyone to watch. He continued to smile and hug me.
He spent more time in the house than he ever had.
"I just wanted to stand up at the microphone and say I'm really glad families are forever because I love my grandpa and grandma and a few years after my grandma died we were all having a barbecue at my grandpa's house and I was playing with my Polly Pockets on the floor and I found this pink Polly Pocket rollerblade that I thought I lost. I knew the other one was at home so I was glad I found it but then when I went back to get it it was gone again. I asked my grandpa if he could help me find it and he said he would just ask my grandma where it was. And she told him where it was and he went to get it and it was there just where she told him it would be. So I'm glad they love each other and that my grandma is still here even though she's not. Amen."