Today, as I fly back from Fuerteventura to Berlin, my mind drifts toward memories and possibilities—things I never imagined as a child. This flight, for instance, feels like something neither you nor I, Grandpa, could have predicted back then. Maybe that’s why this trip carries so much meaning for me.

I remembered how I once wanted to be a bus driver, just like you. But my dreams were bigger—I wanted to cross cities, explore new places, and see the world unfold outside my window. If life had been different, maybe I would’ve dreamed of becoming a pilot. But how could I have imagined flying when I had never even seen a plane up close? Back then, the sky felt like an unreachable idea, too distant to hold. And yet, here I am, thousands of feet above the ground, thinking about all the things we never got to do together.

I tasted fresh cheese on the island and thought of you—of your simple kindness and the warmth you brought to every moment we shared. I saw miniature figures in a museum telling the story of the island’s history. Among them was a man milking a cow, and it brought me back to you, once again. You’ve always been with me, even when you weren’t around.

When I count the minutes we truly spent together, it wasn’t much—not nearly enough. But those minutes were full. Every second mattered. And you, Grandpa, were one of the gentlest men I’ve ever known. I made myself a quiet promise: I won’t settle for anything less than the joy and laughter you taught me to cherish.

Fuerteventura was full of experiences—two surf lessons, stepping into the quiet mouth of a sleeping volcano, practicing Spanish until the words felt like my own. I went further than I ever thought possible. Yet, no matter how far I go, no matter how breathtaking the world becomes, I still miss home. Maybe that’s the one constant: the ache of belonging somewhere, with someone.

You’ve come up often in my therapy sessions lately. I think I needed that—to remember the limits of life itself. Death is a quiet shadow that never tells us when it’ll knock on the door. Sometimes, it arrives softly, like a gentle sigh. Other times, it drags on—an endless wait, heavier than anything else, leaving behind a hollow space where certainty used to live. You left, Grandpa, and I stayed behind, wondering if I ever made the most of the time we had.

But I’m learning to let go of regret and accept what was. I’m trying to understand my own impermanence, too. Life is fragile, and yet, the moments we shared were powerful enough to last a lifetime. Now, all that’s left are memories—and the lessons you gave me without ever having to speak them aloud. I just hope you know how deeply I love you, and how grateful I am to have been your granddaughter.

Funny how life keeps teaching me how to walk through the world. And yet, in every step I take, I still feel you walking alongside me.I love you. I honor you. Always.

With all my love,

Your granddaughter

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