“”You are not the child of the people you call mother and father, but their fellow adventurer on a bright journey to understand the things that are.” – Richard Bach

My paternal grandfather passed away almost twenty years before I was born.  Before my mother’s father passed away, I think I might have visited him three or four times.  Most summers in Pakistan were spent in Lahore with my dad’s family. All I really remember about my “Nana Jaan” is his imposing height and build, his serious and intelligent demeanor and his sharp sense of humor.

When I was around 7, I sat with him in a courtyard slicing orange peels for my grandmother so that she could make marmalade.  I remember him carefully directing me as I cut the peels into string like pieces.  It was the first time I was allowed to use a knife by myself.  Even though I can’t stand the taste of marmalade to this day, sometimes I’ll walk through the grocery store and simply pass my hand over a jar.  As my fingers pass over a random jar, I’ll feel a hint of those moments that passed between us over 25 years ago.

It’s amazing how love can unfold in the smallest and most innocuous of moments.  It’s even more amazing how long that love can last.

I’m glad that my children have the opportunity to spend time with their grandparents every week.

It’s good for them.

Almost as good as it is for my parents.  And me.