His toys no longer have hands to play with them. His tree no longer has a boy to climb it. His wooden sword that I made for him sits in his room with his name burned into it. Its waiting for a boy with imagination and dreams to pick it up.
He will never pick it up again. He will never remember that Christmas I made it for him. Maybe the time for dreaming of being a knight, pirate, or soldier was over anyway, but so is my time of dreaming of being a grandfather of his children of seeing him play with a little boy chasing him around the yard, climbing trees, building fires, having adventures.
I’ll never hear the words, “Grandpa, you made this for my dad? Will you make me one too?” Instead, the sword will sit in his room for a while until we decide to pack it up or decide that we don’t need it anymore. Maybe, someday his niece or nephew will find it and ask, “Why does this sword say Elliot on it?”
If they do, I hope someone is there with a story to tell.
