Dear Luki,

Wow, I can’t believe this year is already 30 weeks old. We are more than halfway trough 2010 and before I know it, it will be the anniversary of your grandpa’s death. Time has gotten twisty since that horrible day. In part, I feel like I was sitting in his hospital room yesterday, praying with all my might for a miracle, but, on the other hand, each day without him is so difficult to endure, that sometimes it seems like time is made of a stretchy, taffy-like material.

I am so glad that I started (and have continued) this project, Luki. I know that, when you get older, these letters will help you understand who your grandpa was, but they’ve had a much more immediate impact. When I sit down each Wednesday to tell you about him, I feel his presence. And as I write about the kind of man he was, I am inspired to work harder towards becoming the kind of person I’d like to be.

There are so many things I want you to know about him that aren’t necessarily material for an entire blog post. They’re little things — details, random memories, lessons he taught me.

Things like: He wore polo shirts more often than not. He tried sushi for the first time a few years ago and loved it. He got more speeding tickets than I can remember.

He had a funny idiom for every situation in life. He spoke in a deep funny voice and made up nicknames for others.

He taught me to ride a bike and to swim. And when we were in Cuba, he made your uncle and I wooden toys.

He had a mustache, but shaved it off for my 10th birthday and never grew it back.

He laughed loudly.

He never sat at the dinner table without showering first.

His bedside clock always had the wrong time on it and he never wore a watch.

He whistled all the time…

I realize these aren’t significant qualities, there’s no underlying lesson for you in these tidbits of information. But I want you to know these kinds of things so that you have a complete picture. Because I hope that, just like I feel his presence when I write these letters, you too can have a similar experience when you read them.

Love,

Mom