My Mother's Good Man

I never met my grandfather. He died when my mother was at a very young age; 6 years old. I've heard he was a good man. I believe it. Through out my life, my mother sporadically told me stories of the days she enjoyed with him. They seemed full of excitement as her voice became higher and higher with the more words she spoke. I saw tears forming in her almost black, yet dark brown eyes that now seemed to be full of color. I remember trying to force my brain to deem every detail with importance. (Something I've been working on.) The way she said each word showed not only how she still knew his personality, but his bone structure too; in an intensely precise manner. The way she pronounced each sentence was as though she could still see his lips moving and hear his voice. It will always impress me. One night when I was child; before I found out I had not only a form of schizophrenia nor anything about the supernatural worldly connections; I saw a figure in my room next to the attack door way. I went closer with each patiently cautious step. I saw a man standing with a fedora perfectly placed atop his dark hair that wasn't long enough to hide his wide eyebrows. He spoke to me; not out loud; almost as though I could hear his faint yet deep voice in surround sound, coming through a Broca’s Area I do not obtain within my skull. The only words I can remember him stating were "Say hello to your mother." Those words will stick to me eternally. I could feel his energy; I could see his intelligence. He was exactly how I thought he would be in my perspectives formed from what I have heard. The words my mother said to me were directly how he acted. I remember feeling comfort fall over me when I realized who he was; although I was already mostly comfortable when I felt the vibes he glowed. Once I told my mother what happened that night I saw her dim eyes come to light again with love and shock desperately showing itself. She pled for details as if she was in the desert and I was her Savior, bringing water to the abundance of cottonmouth she felt, with her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth from loss of hydration. Her pleads were never needed, as I; myself, experienced the talkative trait, while being shy at that age.