I find myself staring at the giant white teddy bear in the Santa Claus outfit. Two letters lay next to my feet. Letters I wrote for him when I was 10 on that yellow stationary with the purple and pink flowers. Letters that I forgot to mail. I have nothing to write on that stationary anymore. There were so many things I wish I had written. So many things I wish I had said to my grandpa that now will never be heard.

Six weeks ago, I lost the only grandparent I’ve ever really known. He was my grandpa –the one that would bring Queen Anne’s chocolate covered cherries for me and my sisters every Christmas. He was the reason my mom served jellied cranberries at Thanksgiving. He was the only one in my family that read Harry Potter with me when the books were first released. He had the huge, goofy glasses that covered half of his face and neatly-combed thin, grey hairs upon his head. And I loved it. I loved his round belly that was always buttoned into plaid, flannel shirts and tucked into the pair of blue pants he always wore.

My grandpa never heard me though. He wasn’t deaf, but I just have a soft voice. So I think it was a few years ago that I gave up on directly talking to him. I had grown tired of repeating myself over and over. I had what I liked to call a “translator” to relay my messages to my grandpa – which were few. Either my little sister (who is extremely loud) or my mom would tell him while they were talking on the phone, “Molly says she loves you.” But I never said it myself.

It had been years since I last saw my grandpa. His health never allowed him to make the trip from Arkansas, and I selfishly never wanted to give any of my time to visit. I think part of me thought he would always be around to receive my school newspaper every month and read my stories. That he would always be there to send birthday cards. I never thought of the possibility that he wouldn’t be able to tell me how proud he was after my graduation. That I wouldn’t be able to brag to him about what college I was attending next year. I never thought that my grandpa wouldn’t be able to read the first novel I write.

When he died, the family didn’t gossip. No one came forward with juicy secrets. It was the people who he had helped that came forward – the people to whom he had lent money, but he never asked them for anything in return. He had a lifetime of good deeds that his humble personality refused to brag about. “You never know a person’s story,” he would say. “All we can do is help.” He was the most magnanimous person I’ve ever known. He was the beautiful red and orange leaves of the Arkansan trees. He was the one ray of sunlight in many peoples’ lives. And now with every word I write, I’ll think about my grandpa. He is the inspiration I need to follow my dreams. I’m just sorry it took me so long to discover that.

So I find myself staring at that teddy bear he got for me when I was a little girl. Staring at the stationary I used to write letters on for him, but never sent. I wish I had written to him on that flowery, yellow paper to thank him for the money he sent or his old car that I drive. I wish I had visited him when he moved into his new assisted living apartment or had surgery on his shoulder. But most of all, I wish I had spoken louder for him so he really knew just how much I loved him.