My grandpa died yesterday.
My mom came to visit him at the old folks' home two weeks ago, and for the whole time she was there he refused to recognize her.
"I don't know you! Who are you? You're Pulling my leg- You're not Genya!"
She got really pissed off and was about to leave, when he signalled her with his finger to come close to him, then he whispered to her:
"Fooled you didn't I?"
That was the man he was.
When I turned 18 I really disliked the man, for how he treated my grandma.
I did not speak to him nor come visit him at the home.
A couple of years ago I went to visit him; He was half the man I remembered.
Old and confused.
Since then I visited him a number of times. The last time I saw him he didn't recognize me. Or maybe he did.
For me he was the man who is always there.
He survived the Holocaust, he survived cancer, he is still playing his accordion.
He is my grandpa, and I love him.
