Papa

My maternal grandfather was a Marine. He served in WWII. I called him Papa, and I only knew him for a few short years. He died of a massive heart attack when I was 8 years old.

He was the coolest. I remember swimming in the ocean with him. I remember the smell of his cigars. I remember walking around the block at the shore house to go get fresh, homemade banana ice cream. Yum. I remember always laughing and being happy around him. And I remember the one and only time he got cross with my sister and I -- because of something with my little brother.

I miss him. I feel like I was robbed. I often wonder what my life would have been like had he lived longer and been more of an influence in my world.

I stopped at his grave on my way home from work today. I do that from time to time. It is marked with a small stone, with his name, U.S. Marine Corps, and his birth and death dates. I talked to him for a moment, and asked him to look over me on Sunday -- to be there with me and remind me to take it all in, look around and thank the men and women in uniform, enjoy the day.

No rush, no pressure. That's my mantra for Sunday. I will be thinking about my Papa, I will be thinking about my friend FXC (also a former Marine), and I will be taking it all in. I've been feeling less than healthy all week, and I'm not expecting a fast time. I'm not planning on it. I'm not thinking about my time.

Run with me on Sunday, Papa. I'll be thinking about you.