Maybe time really doesn't flow in a straight line.
Tonight, I was 8 or 10 or some number somewhere in there. I was sitting on the floor next to the bed, lamp light warming my head, pages flicking regularly as grandpa's grumbly voice rolled out Tolkein. He, in my head, was laying in his pj's on his side reading to us as we (well, me at least. Sometimes Sarah was there, Catherine and Suzanne too little to sit for that long) listened enraptured.
I haven't cried over missing him in sometime. It's different losing a grandparent as opposed to a child or a husband or a parent. The last time I felt this pang of missing him was when I saw someone sitting in Sears in one of the chairs, legs crossed, head propped on his index finger just like he did.
Tonight, hearing him so much younger, less gravelly, less cranky, was...different. Like he's drifting somewhere, lagging behind us, reading aloud and waiting. Waiting like he was waiting then, for us to see him again.
I'm glad to hear him, so very glad he took the time so long ago to read so many nights into the tape recorder for us.