Recently, I was going through my closet, and I found my grandfather's old Typewriter. It was like walking into the past. It still smelled like him and there was paper taped to it that had random thoughts that he had typed in testing the new ribbon. I could hear his voice in my head. I could see his gnarly knuckles and veined hands. I remembered snatches of conversations. He was always quiet and I have more memories of my grandmother who had a more dominant personality. The main feeling I had was regret: I regretted that I did not spend more time with him after he moved from another state to being right down the block. I remember he had such wonderful stories but that I was always antsy to get outside to play with my friends. I wish I had stayed and listened because I have a feeling that I missed a great fount of knowledge and life experiences that I could have used in my writing.
I guess the moral of this little story is to live in the moment more and to pay attention to those around me. I don't want to have to live with any more regrets.
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