I'd never seen him cry before...

And never seen him cry after.

D-Day.

The Battle of Normandy.

I’m going to start off with, I miss my gramps.

This isn’t just on June 6th, it’s really all of the time.

He was the most generous and giving man that you could ever imagine, patient as the day is long.

But I remember…seeing him cry once.

I don’t even remember how old I was - was so long ago.

And besides seeing him dressed in his military uniform only in a picture, this was the one time that I’d seen him pressed and dressed.

We had no idea of what he’d gone through serving our country - he’d never let on.

But on this one occasion, where I couldn’t even begin to imagine what he’d gone through, I remember.

My grandfather was on the beeches of Normandy - during D-Day, or so I’d come to understand, and it was this day. He had a signature zippo in hand that he rubbed with his thumb.

And it was because of this that he’d never talked about his time serving Canada, never talked about what he’d been through.

How do you explain this to the adults in the room, never mind the children that you’d helped raise…he never tried.

At his end of days, I wheeled my grandfather into his chemo treatments…him embarrassed to not be able to get himself out of a wheelchair and prepped - had defecated himself and while was fully aware, was unable to express his full shame.

I remember him trying.

“No Gramps, you have nothing to apologize for, nothing to be ashamed of”, I said and tried to express.

It fell on his deaf ears.

He was weak and ashamed.

Dressed in a plain white t-shirt and a pair of waffle patterned grey long-johns, limited mobility, pain that he’d never expressed - a level of suffering I’d not wish on my worst enemy…

And to be honest…I try to do my level best to forget about this.

Seeing the most pride-filled man, my grandfather, feeling this helpless - because there was nothing I could do to help ease this for him in a way where he could sooth my every cut, scrape or bruise, was crushing.

It was my turn and I couldn’t repay his efforts. His compassion. His love.

Not in a way that it would soothe me as a child to what he was to his condition.

His generosity was felt with every Birthday or Christmas, not only to me, but everybody in our family.

But the truth was, when it came time to receiving the things we’d wanted, their importance paled beside the giver of such gifts.

Candy and treats, we’d always sneak behind my grandmother - he was good in this way.

But we’d never wanted to go to him for just a treat. He was the treat.

And I failed him.

As kids, my sister and myself learned to lather him up with a classical styled shaving brush and bar soap - learned to shave him, which I’m sure we’d done poorly.

He’d gifted me a shoe-shine kit that I used to pride myself with - in just shining his shoes or slippers.

It was never about a gift wrapped in special paper and a bow…

Never about a card with a few bucks cash…

Not even about a cold slush treat - before lunch - where baba would have disapproved.

It was our time.

Our time together.

I miss my Gramps.

Everyday that I try to be the example he’d set.

Everyday that I wish I had his patience and understanding.

But for today, I miss him the most.

Dressed in uniform, the only time I’d seen him cry and never really knowing why.

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