My grandfather died when I was one year old.
My mother often said that she was so glad
that he had lived long enough to see me.
At the time I just accepted what she said,
in the unthinking way of a child.
But now I wonder why she felt that way.
He is gone, and has no memory of me.
And I have no memory of him.
So our time together seems to have been for nothing.
And now she is gone too.