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My middle sis posted the other day on Facebook how dunking cookies in her coffee reminded her of grampa and suddenly all the cousins were all chiming in and it turned into a familial trip down memory lane. I miss Dusty nearly every day, and now his house is getting cleaned out and I keep thinking how a piece of my past is going to pass into somebody else's hands and never again will I perch on a chair at the kitchen table, snacking on cookies soaked in his special brew of milky-sweet coffee. Never again sit with him on the bleachers at the ballfield at twilight, cracking sunflower seeds between my teeth, watching his strong tanned hand pencil in the box score. No more nights on the back porch steps looking up at the starry sky as he sang,"Bright and Shiny Moon" or calling shotgun in his rusted-out station wagon for a dump run. No more games of burn-out in the side yard between him and uncle Dugie, no more chasing fireflies on a humid Kansas evening while he put the finishing touches on the hedges. My cousins and sisters and I share this, this missing Dusty, this yearning for him. He was a handsome, classy old guy, with a good word for everyone and such a zest, such a passion for what he loved--baseball and kids and coffee with the guys and teasing gramma, calling her Marge and getting her all riled up.
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It's a good hurt, I guess, missing Dusty.
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