Connor’s Kipper Snacks

sketch of grandfather and grandson eating herring

His was a loving scowl, a knowing joke, almost constantly crabby, otherwise, endearingly, singing. A voice, a tone, tuned to resonate in your bones, that warm feeling without the stasis. Even the breaths were suspenseful. Always a head of hair. Craning limbs with impossible joints and reach could easily catch anyone trying to run past, chasing dachshund, brother, dinner. In his orbit you had no choice, didn’t want one.  A giver of gifts, a gatherer, an insistent snorer. Just barely at home here, apparent in a belonging somewhere kinder, slower, fuller of riches. Attended, tended to, though subjected to some cruel fates, as a general rule his generosity was returned. Never alone no matter how much he seemed it. He had this thing with herring.