I will always remember that twice a week, around the kitchen table, my sister would sit down with my dad for hours, and they would try to work out her math homework. I should mention that my dad is an artist, and art teacher. Truth be told I think he struggled with math just as much if not more then she did. But twice a week you could hear them downstairs, going back and forth, trying to figure it out together. Some nights would be smooth and easy, some nights I could hear them arguing from one floor up about factors or equations, not in anger but in mutual frustration.

I remember the day that she passed. My sister couldn’t wait until my dad’s school day ended, so she called him at work. She gleefully announced to him “I got a D-!”. We could hear him through the phone as he exclaimed “She got a D!” excitedly to his class. Still through the phone we heard his students clapping, laughing and whooping in congratulations. Seldom has a grade in our household been so celebrated.

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Out of instinct you reach for it the same time her pops do…sooo now her dad looking at you like..

Grandpa be like

He smelled of leather and sawdust.

His wrists are still the widest ones I have ever seen, and his hands were rough, big as a bear’s and the safest place I knew.

He had a melody to his voice that could never settle on danish or swedish.

He didn’t always understand, but he always listened and encouraged.

His tattoos were greyish and blurry but still beautiful.

He didn’t have a lot of money so he built me his own barbie dream house out of wood. It was the prettiest thing I had ever seen.

He had hundreds of scars on his body, my favourite one was a perfectly round and smooth scar on his forearm, because it had the best story behind it.

He made the world’s best pancakes.

He never once turned his back on me when we said goodbye and I left - by car, bike or bus. I would turn around and he would always still be waving and sending me kisses until he was out of sight.