My maternal grandfather died two months after I was born. I thought about this quite a bit in the months prior to becoming, and after I became, a grandfather myself to our daughter’s and her husband’s son late last year. I breathed a little easier too, after he passed his two-month birthday and I was still standing and very much a part of this existence. Most said I was silly, and I probably was, but that didn’t stop the thoughts from entering my mind.
My paternal grandfather died not long after my fourth birthday. I’m told when we visited him once—my paternal grandparents lived far away in Prince Edward Island—that I convinced him to get down on his hands and knees, not easy for a heavyset man to do, to look for my then imaginary friend who was underneath the sofa.
Strange how thoughts come into our minds. I don’t know why I’m thinking about these things this week.
What’s more, this little grandson of ours came into this world with not only four living grandparents but seven-of-eight living great grandparents. I was born with four grandparents but that was short lived, as for a large part of my life I had two. I’ve never had any great grandparents.
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