As days pass, more and more of you have faded away from me, like a brush that barely has paint clinging to it. My bones shivering in the cold without your warm embrace. Thinking about the future, even more years from now without you, I feel that numbness enveloping me, consuming me each day, until I have to take a step back and just give in. Feeling that numbness in order to truly appreciate the warmth around me. I wish I could show you what I see. If I could show you where I am and how happy I am. Even with all that I’ve overcome, it would still not suffice. It would not compare to being able to see you one last time. 

 

There are a thousand traces of you in everything I touch - from the salt crystals on the balcony from throwing away the bad luck, flecks of you in the greys of my dad’s hair, the nail polish bottle you bought me once, with nail polish dried and embedded in the grooves of all of toy teacup sets. The lingering scent of cedar, sandalwood, and minty toothpaste. My grandfather wasn’t just any person to me; he was a quiet ritual, a prayer of sorts, a magic woven into the fabric of my very being. 

 

Your hands were like river stones, worn but resilient, sculpted by years of meticulous hard work to the point of mathematical precision, as one should have as an engineer. These years of precision work - measuring, drafting, and solving puzzles only you could see. In his last years, though, your body had betrayed you, and the strong hands that firmly carried me soon grew frail. Three times a week, you would sit in a sterile, silent room, hooked up to a dialysis machine that filtered your blood but also seemed to drain your spirits, too. 

 

The sky used to light up when you took me on walks as a young child, pointing out all the trees and plants. You were the keeper of our family’s stories, the stubborn oak rooted in old traditions that he insisted we carry forward. As a child, I used to sit on that balcony and look across the large pond, wondering how it’d be like to swim amongst the fish. The fish would always be caught by the kingfishers that lived nearby, and the little fish would flop around trying to escape the clutches of the bird. You spoke to all the animals and plants like they were his own friends, each with its own story and needs. I recall you saying, “everything alive is like that; it just wants someone to see it, to know it.”

 

If I could see your face once more, I could see how alive and spirited you were despite the hardest of times. Your resilience and courage, I remember it as clearly as the stories you used to tell me. The stories I will pass on to my children. I remember your favourite foods and places to go when we would decide what to have for dinner. I remember your dislike for eggs before you were forced to eat for your health. But most of all, I remember is, drawing with you, painting with you, and creating imaginary places with you. 

 

But now those memories feel like a lifetime ago; I decided to keep everything that you ever gave me and keep it safe, too cherished a possession to ever be used. I kept his notes crumpled and faded over time from years of use. I don’t remember his sketches, but the skilful way he used to sign his name indicated a true artistic quality that had been passed down generations from him to my father to then me. Sometimes, I could almost hear his voice coaching me from over my shoulder, showing me the right proportions, guiding my way through the understanding of Monet’s masterpieces. 

 

Even as your health waned, you never stopped drawing. On rare days when your energy returned, you’d sit against the window with a pad of paper in his hands. He filled the pages with fragmented scenes from your memory, if not capturing memories of our loved ones that have now passed.

 

After you passed away, I found your sketches crumpled up and filled with ideas never shown to anyone else. The pages blue with ink, numbers in margins, and faintly pencilled lines that outlined structure and landscapes. I can barely remember it now, but I swear it was as if you knew I’d find this fantastical city in your mind. He drawn these designs not for others to see, but for himself, as if they were dreams to fragile to share.

Unable to bear the thought of your visions fading, I picked up a pen and my own sketchbook (by now I have several, but then it was a singular one). I was no engineer, but I felt compelled to carry on his legacy drawing and sketching, not with the technical precision needed for landscapes but capturing the essence of portraits. You are the reason why my own designs are as rough as yours were, a dialogue with his. I’d transform elements of his flowers and whimsy with my more realistic touch, a visionary spirit bridging your mind with mine.

 

Slowly, as time passes, little by little, I feel as if you’re here with me, a quiet artist in the back of the mind, guiding my hand as I sketch. In honouring his legacy, I decided to pursue the arts; whether it be English or visual arts, I am honouring his imagination. I am his legacy, and I’m living his secret ambition, one impossible line at a time, drawing a world as you might have seen it - a place that could always be something more.