So long as they lived — over eighty-eight, and ninety-two, respective summers of their remarkable existence, my grandma and grandpa were, quite simply, wonderful. They were temperamentally, or religiously, rigid individuals. Yet, they were open, rational, and liberal. They were my cherished possessions.
They are, of course, no more, in the physical sense, yes — not by way of their charming, eternal images. Their reflections emit powerful memories — memories like words that fall like raindrops on my bald pate. Of memories, which remind me of my childhood; of the way I used to often trouble them and make them furious; of their protests about my infinite capacity to causing bedlam, and so on.
Despite my effusive pranks, one feels, as one looks back, why one should always have grandparents around. Of grandparents who love, care, and, at the same time, are firm, stern, and also ‘stiff,’ what with a wonderful capacity to seeing things in the right perspective — of being attached and, at the same time, detached. Yes, the credo may sometimes appear unthinkable: of grandpas who become too emotional, or attached, that they often miss the wood for the trees and vice versa, more so, because they’re the ones that pamper us the most.
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