I am blessed to still have my grandfather here to talk to, to laugh with, to watch while he plays with my two year old daughter.
Friday night the husbando and I were over his house, our daughter was in bed and we were all sitting around reading, and for some reason at that moment I felt an inexplicable connection to him.
We weren't having a deep conversation, we weren't even talking, we were sitting in complete silence next to each other peacefully reading our own books.
But there was something about that action, about the simultaneous deep enjoyment of the written word that felt like a very profound connection.
We have always shared a love of reading, I blame him for my drive to finish a book, even when it's 2:30 in the morning and I know I should just put it down and finish it the next day, I can't. I have to finish a really good story (and sometimes even a mediocre one), or I can't rest.
Though we always share our thoughts on books, and we give each other plenty of recommendations (admittedly my last 3 suggestions for him have been total busts because he hated them), I have never felt our shared passion in the same way that I did Friday night.
Maybe it's because we were in silence, each happily pursuing some far off land, some word shaped dream.
It is a feeling I will never forget, and I'm exceedingly grateful that I had the chance to experience it.