When I was a little girl, my grandfather used to tell me stories. Stories about a time long ago, when creatures like Elves, Dwarves and Hobbits used to roam the earth. And though they were made from the stuff of legend, my grandfather always made them sound as if they had existed. He always believed in things that don't normally exist. When arguments like these arose around the dinning table he would always say; "Just because you haven't seen it for yourself, doesn't it doesn't make it true." And he'll point at the Crucifix at the center of our wall. That always silenced my parents. But not me. I used to think he was wise. But of course, there were others that didn't. Like my parents, and my Aunt Beatrice, who thought his ideas were; Made up.
I used to spend a lot of time with him during those summer months, when my parents would go away on months long business trips. They would send me to out to the little provincial town where he lived, and I would stay there with Aunt Beatrice and him until they got back. This is how I know all these stories about these strange little creatures, and his favorite was one of a Hobbit named Bilbo Baggins.
I used to enjoy these stories but like all children, we grew up. As I grew older, I spent less and less time with him. Busy with school, and all those other absolutely normal and not so exciting things that everyone went through. And occasionally, with the time spent away from him, we grew apart. Years after, my grandfather passed away.
None of us were prepared for his passing. But deaths in life, are normal. And life goes on Without him, the rest of us continued normal lives here on Earth. Though, even if we never mentioned anything, my life has never been the same after that.
My grandfather always used to tell me;
"Things happen for a reason."
I never really understood what that had meant...
Until now.
