When my grandfather was alive, I never really paid much attention to him or gave him the time of day because of my young age and interest in computer. Then as I gradually got older I realized that he's an interesting person and I should spent more time with him. Then one night, I was at my friends house and my mom picked me up early. I was mad at her in the inside because my friend and I were about to go swimming, but I realized she was sad, holding in tears. Recently at the time, my grandfather had been in the hospital due to pneumonia, so I had figured one thing.
I really should have treated him like a better person. Sure, I loved him, I cared for him, but I would really never care about the little things like when he'd tell stories of World War II and growing up in the 1930s. It's been almost four years since I've heard his voice or made him a bowl of ice cream or watch him play Solitare on a near broken laptop.
It's the little things that count.
