We struggled to push the glass door open and carefully made our way onto the back balcony in the pitch black night. Our eyes had yet to adjust, grandpa, you out here? I hit my foot on the white lounge chair. Yea I’m here, yoookaay he said, in his always chipper voice. We felt around and seated ourselves across the lounge chair next to him. Slowly our eyes revealed the starry night shining out over the waves crashing in the gulf, and our young ninety-four year old grandfather sipping on his mojito. Brian, Amanda and I sat there in the warm summers night as we listened to his stories about what it was like when he was growing up, the civil war era, working for Dupont, and how he swept my grandmother, the beautiful Alice Hill, off her feet and away from the guy she was going with, during that very first car ride.
He has lead a full happy life, and through his recent travels in the last few years to Ireland, Alaska, and Hawaii, it had lead him to this point. This night. This balcony. Sitting with three of his grandchildren, sharing stories of years past. I couldn’t help but want to hear more stories, but in true Grandpa fashion his straw had reached dry ice at the bottom of his cup. He had finished his drink, and needed another one, of course. We walked off the balcony, leaving the stars and waves behind, but not the moments. Those moments, on that balcony, they stayed with us.
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