One year ago my Grandpa died. My cousin, Megan, wrote this ode a couple months later:
Sundays on the Hill
This Sunday on the hill will be different.
Different from all of my memories of Sundays passed.
All Sundays on the hill began with the church bells ringing, calling the faithful in their ironed slacks and floral patterned dresses to come together, come together and sit on the old, hard wooden pews and stand up to sing the hymns in the best harmony we knew how.
All Sundays on the hill we returned after church to the small house that Grandpa and Grandma called home, the house we all referred to as home at one time or another. After trading in our tan slacks and button-down blouses for gym shorts and time worn t-shirts, we'd settle down into a card game or a crossword or a puzzle or some coffee talk.
All Sundays on the hill, bare feet pushed off the concrete patio to start the rhythmic movement of the porch swing whose chain links produced a melody that told of generations of use. The creaking of that porch swing and the raucous noise of the latest game of Frisbee with the dog provided the day's familiar soundtrack. Although many in the family had been away, separated only by distance, conversation wove between us and connected us like the tight stitching in an old patchwork quilt.
All Sundays on the hill clouds of rich smoke wafted through the air as the chicken--Grandpa's barbecue chicken specialty--sizzled and charred over the fiery hot coals. Later, we ate chicken on the overcrowded patio at the overcrowded picnic table. We ate the chicken until our bellies were fat and happy and ready to call it a day. A perfect day.
All Sundays on the hill were different from this Sunday. This Sunday when my Grandpa is gone.
No Sunday on the hill will ever be the same.
This Sunday on the hill will be different.
Different from all of my memories of Sundays passed.
All Sundays on the hill began with the church bells ringing, calling the faithful in their ironed slacks and floral patterned dresses to come together, come together and sit on the old, hard wooden pews and stand up to sing the hymns in the best harmony we knew how.
All Sundays on the hill we returned after church to the small house that Grandpa and Grandma called home, the house we all referred to as home at one time or another. After trading in our tan slacks and button-down blouses for gym shorts and time worn t-shirts, we'd settle down into a card game or a crossword or a puzzle or some coffee talk.
All Sundays on the hill, bare feet pushed off the concrete patio to start the rhythmic movement of the porch swing whose chain links produced a melody that told of generations of use. The creaking of that porch swing and the raucous noise of the latest game of Frisbee with the dog provided the day's familiar soundtrack. Although many in the family had been away, separated only by distance, conversation wove between us and connected us like the tight stitching in an old patchwork quilt.
All Sundays on the hill clouds of rich smoke wafted through the air as the chicken--Grandpa's barbecue chicken specialty--sizzled and charred over the fiery hot coals. Later, we ate chicken on the overcrowded patio at the overcrowded picnic table. We ate the chicken until our bellies were fat and happy and ready to call it a day. A perfect day.
All Sundays on the hill were different from this Sunday. This Sunday when my Grandpa is gone.
No Sunday on the hill will ever be the same.
1 comment:
That about says it all. Sure do miss him. Thanks Melissa. Love, Dad
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