Taylor Roden

Form #1048

He was a mysterious man, a passionate man. He used to tell me stories of the war like he never left. My father often said he never really came home. To me he was a hero, a brave soldier who put the demands of others before his own. I constantly enjoyed hearing him speak so emotionally. My grandfather used to come into my room every night before bed to read me a story. Most children were told of nursey rhymes, or tales of a beautiful princess being rescued by a heroic prince, but not me. My grandfather used to pull out a small black notebook from the top shelf of the bookcase. I was always amazed how dusty it remained, night after night. It was always strange too given it was only 50 pages but it seemed every night there was a new story. For years this occurred. I knew more about my grandfather then my own father did. I looked forward to bed. I used to force myself to stay awake until he came in. I never got bored of his stories. I would often tell them back to my father but he had this sort of poignant interest. In fact, he never knew of a black book firsthand, a bewildered look on his face whenever I spoke of it. I always tried to show my father the book, but I could never find it on the top shelf. But I knew it was there. I used to ask my grandfather why he never read to my father after the war, but my grandfather just kept reading, seemingly unwilling to acknowledge the inquiry.