I stepped into his house for the first time. It smelled old–like cheap cologne, leather books, and sweat; I could almost taste it. I peered into the far corners of the room and saw my long shadow stretch, touching aged photos on the sepia toned wall. My hands tightly squeezed onto rusted railings as I stepped through the foyer entrance. This house was my obsession. I observed every minute detail: the way the golden lamp warmed one corner of the room revealing a desk of tea stained manuscripts; the small, wooden pony rocking under the breezy vents; the stooping centerpiece, a Big Ben clock, donging at every hour, constantly reminding the house that time was always passing by. I was an archeologist on a dig and every dust-coated detail was my treasure.  

As I walked across the room, I was wary of every sound. My Grandpa liked playing tricks on me; in fact, he loved playing tricks on me. He would hide and wait in a corner behind a door, and then, when I passed by, would pounce on me like a lion. So I walked cautiously on. After every step, the floor creaked beneath my feet. As I crept toward the Dining room, I heard a loud noise. It sounded sweet yet profound, measure after measure ringing in my ears. I followed the sound, unsure. I wasn’t worried anymore; I was just anticipating something. I pushed open the two stained glass doors that led to the living room, and there he was. My Grandpa, sitting poised at the piano bench, his fingers curled down on the glossy keys, summoning up a powerful wave of music.  I waited for his song to end and knocked on the door, so he would know I was there.

“Who is it?” he said. I slammed shut the two doors and came in, fearless in the face of the lion. He smiled, and, as God is my witness, I have never seen another smile so warm and welcoming in all of my life. “Well, come on in, son. Where’s the rest of the family?” My two sisters came in after me, my mom, and then my dad who was carrying the luggage. After hugging and kissing, we pulled up chairs and listened to Grampa play the piano. My Grandpa was a genius at the piano. We listened to him for an hour as he weaved his way through one hymn after another. Then, we set up the table for a game of Chinese checkers. We sat around and talked and laughed. He told us funny “back in the old days” stories about when he was a kid. I loved it; I loved him. He was my friend; he was my Grandpa, and no one was ever going to take that away from me.