Even though he's not alive anymore, I love my grandpa. I called him Bepa, and he was quite honestly one of the best people I could have had for a grandfather.
He was perfect: he was a carpenter, so my brother could help him in his workshop in the garage while he was building me a two-story doll house, complete with wrap-around porch. He had the most comfortable lap, and I remember that it was always open for me to climb on and curl up in. He would, most of the time, play Mah-Jong on the computer, or sit quietly in the living room reading a history book.
Every morning when we were visiting my grandparents in Florida, he would take my brother and I out to a grapefruit tree in the backyard, and we got to help him pick his morning breakfast. He would slice it in half, put it in a tan bowl, sprinkle a bit of sugar over it (not too much, just enough to soak up some of the natural juices), and eat it with a spoon. He would eat each half systematically, always maintaining symmetry. And he ate it slowly - never gobbling it down like it was just bland cereal. He would take a bite, and seemed to contemplate over the flavor, even if he had just had the same bite a minute earlier.
Bepa was amazing, and when he died, I lost someone who can never be replaced. Not because no one can take the place of grandfather, but because no one can be as great of a person as he was.
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