I had barely glanced at the cover since bringing the book home from the library. The title, Grandfather’s Wrinkles, had been chosen to coincide with our week-long study of human skin. I saw “wrinkles” and thought it’d be a good choice for this week‘s topic.
And then I sat down to read the book to the girls. We settled on the couch, and I put the book in my lap. After staring at the cover for a moment, I quickly leafed through the pages and asked Belly, in a wavering voice, “who does this remind you of?” as I pointed to the illustrated grandfather.
“Opa!” she said.
And, I burst into tears. Great sobbing tears that I couldn’t hold back even though my girls were looking at me with big eyes.
Three-and-a-half years since my dad’s death, I no longer cry daily or even weekly. I may tear up when I hear Fleetwood Mac on the car stereo, or think of him when a Republican says something stupid (“Ha, Daddy!”, I think). But I don’t cry often. Mostly, I just feel an ache of longing for his presence, a wish he could see what we were all doing and could be a part of our daily lives.
But, this book slapped me in the face. Here he was: gray hair and mustache, glasses, kind eyes and smile; blue denim shirt with white t-shirt underneath, red suspenders and tan shoes. And next to him is a little girl with honey-colored hair who could have been my own Belly.
The story itself isn’t exact to his life—he didn’t have a big church wedding or a dog. But, he is there. I can feel it as I flip through the pages of the book and dry my tears.
I plan to buy the book for myself, my sister and my mom. I won’t be able to watch them go through it though. I think they’ll understand.
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