Valentine to my grandfather

When Danielle, my French-Canadian roommate from college, came to visit me in Bulgaria for the winter holidays, I took her to the countryside to visit the village where my grandfather lives. He was excited to meet "a real American." As soon as we got off my father's white van to enter the house backyard, my grandfather approached Danielle with shaking hands, hugged her with a wide smile and kept petting her on the shoulder.

This scene well epitomizes my grandfather's character. He, like many old people in Bulgaria, does not believe in personal space and life without spontaneous affection. He, unlike many old people in Bulgaria, does not understand village gossip or intrusion in the family matters of other people. I would like to think that I inherited these traits from him.

My grandfather loves talking to his domestic animals. He tends to choose hard topics, too. Born in 1923, he feels especially passionate about historical and political events during the Second World War and the Cold War. I often think that if he had the chance to receive a good education, he would have become an excellent historian. But more often than not, he will just think aloud about the pursuit of happiness in family life. Sheep and goats stare him back with their humid eyes when he pours out his soul.

I called my grandfather tonight. Every time I call him, my eyes get teary from my physical inability to be in the countryside with him, hold his shaking hands and let him pour out his soul to me.