Funeral
Here lies a beloved husband, father, grandfather, drinking buddy and the greatest storyteller of the universe.
 â In the end, weâll all become storiesâ â Margaret Atwood. I should be crying right now. Why am I not crying?
    The black rock that stands now before me took his place to easy, the soft breeze of April feels like a wall ready to crush me, the rustling of the oak tree above me sends spikes deep in my brain  and the chrysanthemums are his favorite colour, blue, exactly like his eyes, his beautiful and forever closed eyes, Iâm not going to see them beside the photos and yet,  my eyes are still dry, his sunny smile I dread the thought of forgetting  and calloused hands, that are not going to build a new bird nest next week and the week after that, the  raspy voice that lulled me to sleep with captivating stories every night since I was six itâs not going to be there this one night when I need it the most and still I smile, a tired smile and lit two cigarettes one for me one for him relaxing my shoulders when the bitterness hits my taste buds and I am fine. How could I be fine with this? Why am I not crying right now?
Paul Silva was Hungarian, had four brothers and met the love of  his life at 17 years old at the corner store between the cheese and wine aisle, he had two children a boy and a girl and five grandchildren, he liked to garden, build, cook, his knitted sweater and to teach.
My grandpa was a traveler, but only with his mind because the fear of planes and the bad right leg. He was a storyteller, with tales and adventure for a lifetime scattered in the wall of his little cottage he could transport you in endless dimensions only with his words and let me tell you that man never ran out of them.
Paul bĂĄcsi as any young child in the village knows him had a bright and gorgeous mind filled to the brim with knowledge and memories of a life spend to the fullest. I cannot bring him back, he cannot be saved  and still I am at peace, he taught me how to swim, to garden and my hands are not trembling on the cigarette half smoked and I know that tomorrow Iâm going to pack his things and clean his house for the last time. Why am I not crying?
His kindness and funny aura attracted even the most bitter human on the world, nobody living our home went without a smile plastered on their face and peace in their soul well at least if you werenât our neighbours chickens which heâs declared war long before I was born. He preferred mint chocolate ice cream and tea over coffee anytime. He liked poppies even though he was allergic to them and once he stole cherries from a tree but was so filled with remorse that  putting back twice the amount the next day was only the right thing to do.
 My grandfathers favorite season was spring because he was born on 10 April 1954 which is ironic because today is 10 April 2020 and my grandfather is dead. So why am I not crying?
Excerpt from the book I'm almost writing by me
