August 22.

Today would have been my grandfather’s birthday. And while he’s no longer here to celebrate, I find myself celebrating him anyway – in the quiet, ordinary ways he still shows up in my life.

They say our grandparents never truly die – that even when they leave this world, they live on in the smallest pieces of us. In the way we stir our coffee, the way we laugh at a silly joke, the way we hold tradition close, even when no one’s watching.

For me, my grandfather is in the way I still make “egg in the hole” for breakfast {or lunch or dinner, lol}. In the old pickup truck he’d invite me to ride along in for his Walmart trips. I used to say, “Paw Paw, you sure do love Walmart!” Only to grow up realizing it was less about Walmart and more about using it as an excuse to spend time with me. In the way he taught me how to drive on an old back road, the way he loved tennis and lit up when he talked about it – in the way he’d make ‘scary moo cow noises’ when I’d spend the night as a little girl. He’s in the curve of my handwriting, in the patience I find when creating something with my own two hands. He is in every brushstroke, every word, every moment I choose to create – not for recognition or money, but for the simple joy of it – because he taught me that creating for yourself is always enough.

He was a man of infinite creativity: his music room filled with melodies of legendary artists as well as his very own self-written songs, his calligraphy strokes curling like poetry on paper, his photography and sculptures capturing beauty in unexpected places. He played guitar and sang with his whole heart, took us Christmas caroling in the neighborhood when we were kids, and never turned down a karaoke night or “talent show”. His laughter – those deep, contagious cackles – could fill a room and make it infinitely brighter.

All of these things he created were and are still so close to my heart because they are a reflection of who he was – not just how he presented himself to the world, but who he was deep down, as a soul having the true human experience. They are a reflection of how he saw the world through his own two eyes {this is where he’d make a hilarious joke about how technically he only has one eye, if you know then you know lol}.

I can still picture him: me pulling up to his house after a long day’s yard work, straw hat tilted, gloves covered in dirt, shark tooth chain resting against his chest, sweat dripping as he sat next to my grandmother with a grin, sipping an ice-cold root beer. Always smiling. Always so full of life. Always saying, “I love my Katie Belle”.

But what I carry most is the way he loved. More than his creativity or humor, he was love itself – kind, encouraging, steady. His hugs wrapped around me like a warm blanket, his forehead kisses lingered long after, and even when I was grown, he still wanted me curled up on that old recliner beside him. The way he loved my grandmother, with tenderness and devotion. The way he loved his children and grandchildren, with pride and joy. It is true what they say: people may forget your words, but they will never forget how you made them feel. And from him, I only ever felt endless love. Even though he has been gone for some time now, that love is still with me every single day.

I miss him terribly. And yet, I find him everywhere. In the quiet traditions I carry. In the laughter that sneaks out unexpectedly. In the encouragement I still hear when I dare to dream. Grandparents are like that – they live on inside us, in our habits, in our rituals, in the stories we tell. They weave themselves so deeply into who we are that even when they’re gone, they remain.

And for the first time in nearly two years, in celebration of him today, I’ll be playing all things Elvis on repeat. For so long, I couldn’t bear to listen. If an Elvis song came on in a store, I’d drop everything and leave, never-ending tears strolling down my face because my heart just couldn’t take it. It wasn’t Elvis’s voice I was hearing – it was my grandfather’s. It wasn’t Elvis I was picturing – it was him, in his music room, strumming his guitar and singing those lyrics to me. For a while, Elvis songs, root beer, Walmart trips, egg in the hole, calligraphy, writing – creating – were all reminders that I was now living in a world that he no longer belonged to. But now, I think I’m finally learning how to celebrate the fact that these bits and pieces he left behind for me to cherish are enough to get me by until we meet again; because they kinda have to be.

We used to sit and talk about the most random topics together. I distinctly remember one conversation we had a few years prior to his passing. He looked at me and said, “Isn’t it strange how when we die, the world keeps spinning and everyone keeps living. It’s an eerie thought, isn’t it? That even long after we’re gone, the people we love may very well still be here.” But isn’t it eerie, that even after he’s gone and I’m still here, some days it simply feels like he’s left for a long vacation. That we’ll meet again someday. Because all the love, creativity, and joy he instilled in me continues to live on. Funny enough, the shirt he’s wearing in the picture of us in this post says ‘Get Over It’ – and with his sense of humor, he would absolutely get a kick out of saying that to me right now.

He would find it absolutely incredible that I finally graduated college – especially with a computer science degree after years of changing majors, that I write & share my writing on my own website – even if most of it is just shouting my thoughts into a void of no return – that I’m creating things with my own hands for the joy of it, that I’m finally {seemingly} figuring this thing called life out. Oh, how I wish he were here right now. How I wish he could be here someday when I get married or have children. I’d always dreamt of sharing those moments with him. But I’m learning to be grateful for the times we shared instead of dwelling on the ones that cancer stole from us.

So today I’ll listen to my playlist dedicated to grandparents, I’ll have a root beer, and I’ll create something. Not for the internet or for money and not to be productive – but for the simple fact that I can. That I want to. Because my grandfather taught me that creativity isn’t only made for recognition, applause, or for the sake of being productive. It’s for the love of it – for the love of others.

So today, on his birthday, this is my ode to him – and to every grandparent who shaped us with their love. They never truly leave us; they live in us, folded into the rhythm of our days, reminding us that love is the one legacy that never dies.

And as my Paw Paw would always say as an inside joke with our family:
Wherever you go, there you are.