Grandpa

As I walked through the door of the funeral home, the floral arrangements was a blur colors. I wiped away my tears; I headed over to the collection of pictures of my grandfather. His smile seemed to rise above the pictures, and just for a moment, I could almost hear him laugh and see his eyes sparkle as they did when he told me one of his jokes. My eyes looked through the old pictures, looking for myself among the images. There it was, a photo of Grandpa holding me in his lap when I was probably no more than four years old. Then I let my mind drift……
He always called me his little Jew. This made my heart melt every time I heard it. He said I reminded him of a Jewish child with dark curly hair and big dark eyes like most Jewish people as he portrayed them
My grandfather was American Indian with a passion for drinking and smoking while he   trapped snapper turtles and fishing for bull heads. He was 6’1, very tall for his race, skin so brown that it was almost black, and coal black eyes like a demon. His face was rugged and weathered from working outdoors in the lumber yard all of his life, but his heart was as big as the universe.
His house was a very special place to be. I lived with my grandfather for many years during the summer when I was little. His house always seemed to have something about it that kept me coming back year after year. His house was of decaying wood, which reminded me of age. The white siding showed signs of neglect. Paint chips had fallen off and laid on the window ledge and shudders, leaving small patches of wood showing. The shudders were brown and rough, like the bark of an old tree. Hanging uneven, they gave the impression of abandonment. Mounted next to the porch stood a cast iron rail, although it was crooked, but it still looked like had the same strength as if it were new. A wobbly old mailbox was still next to the porch. The post was rotten from so many years of sun and snow; it amazed me that it still stood. The numbers on the...