Memory #356

He is tall. A good 6'2'' to her 4'11." His skin is dark and leathery; worn by the sun. He leads her hand-in-hand, dressed up in a light-weight, snap-botton shirt and wrangler jeans. When he gets close he bends down to me and pulls a Werther's Original from his pocket. He hands it to me with a wink. I can smell his Stenson cologne; the stuff from the brown-glass cowboy that sits on his dresser. As I take the caramel from his massive hands, stained with motor oil and iodine, and rock solid from work, I give him the smile that little girls save only for their grandfathers. Towering over me he continues to lead her. She is petite; short with dainty legs, so he keeps his long stride slow. As I run to catch up with my cousins, I hear him laughing; laughing and talking and talking... and talking.

He is old and sight is slipping. Not quite as tall as he once was- funny how age can do that. Familiar places remain so primarily by shape, sound and smell. However, Barney from The Andy Griffith Show is recognizable before he even speaks. She leads him through the pines and cabins as only she can; because it really isn't leading at all, just Grandpa and Grandma taking a stroll. His knees are sore, so she keeps her petite steps slow. As people pass by he talks and laughs and talks... and talks.