He was finally going to get to visit. This had been a long time coming, years in fact. Through a fortunate circumstance, here he was, almost two thousand miles from where he lived. Arriving late in the afternoon, the office was getting ready to close, though the grounds would stay open. The secretary found the information, pulled out a map and marked the spot. When he found the right area, he admired the scenery around him. To the West, the thick stand of trees blocked the view of the Missouri River. The North, East and South were grassy knolls dotted with headstones. He headed up the East hill. One, two, three, four rows up. Count six headstones over. Here was a man who had been proud, talented, and had a volatile temper, much like himself. Here was a man who had fought in a World War, practiced a valuable trade as an electrician, and had been cut down in the prime of his life. Here was his grandfather. He introduced himself, told a little about his life. The more he talked, the easier it became. He told his grandfather about the man's only child, the son who was also a father. He talked about siblings. As the evening gently rolled through the trees that blocked the river view, he talked and talked. There was so much to tell: stories that had been passed down, events where he had participated or at least been present. He stretched out on the grass. He told his grandfather how he regretted not having the chance to meet him in life. He told him how they'd been compared, how the similarities had been seen, both good and bad. Then he listened. He lay quietly as wave after wave of emotion washed over him. There was happiness at meeting one of his grandchildren. There was pride that swelled and almost shimmered with light at how well his boy had done. There was amazement at hearing about some of the places lived, trips taken, events in life. There was sadness, and a touch of bitterness, too: the regret at not having lived to be a part of it. Too soon, it was dark and time to go. He was only mildly surprised that he had to wipe his eyes. He thanked his grandfather, and told him that if there was any way possible, he'd visit again. Driving away, he felt both lighter and exhausted. He didn't wonder about what had been real, what had been imagined. What mattered was the connection, a connection he hoped would last.