When my Grandfather Died

For me the world stopped when my grandfather died, so I was surprised when I looked out the window of my little Oakland Ave third-floor triple-decker apartment and saw the Smith Street bus running by. I had imagined the busses would stop too. Grandpa was the first person who really loved me. He loved my blue eyes and bright round fair-skinned face. He loved that I loved science and words and his magic tricks, and that I looked just like him. He loved that I sniffed everything before tasting, and that I rubbed my nose with the palm of my hand when it itched, just like he did. I was his beloved grand-daughter, his only blue-eyed son, his identical twin. I was his twin even though I was a petite, slender, shy little girl and he was a short, round, vain, tanned, loud, gregarious smoker of cigars.