I remember the dark voice when you told me a story, like the time you welded the teacher's glasses to a metal table.

I remember your kind laugh when one of your grand kids did something funny, like when tyler turned off your oxygen you still didn't get mad.

I remember the time we came to visit you all the way from Oklahoma, and you and grandma started to cry.

I remember the summer I stayed at your house, and we watched movies all day. Your favorite was The Outsiders.

I remember one spring, you got sick and we thought this was it, and of course you pulled though like you always did.

I remember when you had grandma went to a nursing home, you ended up loving it and was made a Wii bowling team.

I remember the day you told me you and grandma were proud of me for writing.

I remember this summer how you were in and out of a coma but you could barely talk.

I remember when I was in your room alone with you we didn't say anything but just looked at each other and we both knew what we were thinking.

But the best and last memory I have is the day I was leaving for Iowa we hugged each other for five to ten minutes. Knowing we wouldn't see each other for a very long time, but I guess you already knew that. I swear that hug was never gonna end.

I remember the dark kind voice when he told me story.