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Caity Nowosatka

by

A Pink Ribbon

He was wise, spreading intelligence through us all little by little. Not a sunny warm day or a cold icy one passed without him trying to make the best of it. He believed in all of us his four kids, eleven grandkids and twenty five great grandkids. He was my great-grandfather and that he was.

It was a warm day, the sun glistening outside while I rode in my grandfathers white truck, bouncing up and down the whole way to the store. I listened to him talk, going on and on about the good old days and laughing to himself about the memories he deeply missed. There wasnít a thing in the world that my grandfather didnít have a story about, his mouth was always running. You never saw the mood he was in by his eyes, or his facial expression you always knew by the story he was telling.

We reached the store and entered, looking for specific items that grandmother had written down for cookies. Making a list was the only way to ensure us coming home without the entire store. As we roamed up and down the asiles, stopping and talking to people of course. I came a across and pink ribbon. I hung down from a rack, my eyes opened wipe taking in the color of my fairytale dreams. I wanted it. Grandfather saw the wide eye expression, but pulled me away telling me that grandmother would have a fit if we ventured from the list. Still the thought of that ribbon turned in my mind.

As the mouths passed, Christmas seemed right around the corner. Gathering at Grandfathers house was the greatest tradition, walking in to food galore and many relatives greeting you with warm hugs. Present time came soon. Every little kid giddy as can be, wondering what we all had behind the thick paper that grandmother wrapped with. As the presents were spread about, I noticed something on mine. A pink ribbon tied in the perfect bow lay on my box. It was the ribbon from the store. Years passed and every Christmas I would have a perfect pink bow placed on my present, and in my card it always said and ďA little extra present to my granddaughter whose world is colored pink.Ē

As my sixth grade year pasted around grandfather was becoming ill. His body thinned and his voice much softer but his vibrant stories stayed. He got worst and worst, and Christmas was still six months away. He knew. He knew he wasnít going to make it. I entered his room on a Thursday the sun shinning bright in threw the windows. He wasnít talking this time. As I approached him his eyes opened and gave me a small quiet smile. With all the strength he had left he reached for my hand pulling it close. Then I felt the touch, a touch so soft and small. A ribbon, a pink ribbon lay in my hand. I looked at him with teary eyes, inside his mind he was telling many stories, but on the outside the ribbon told me everything I needed to hear.

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