Me and my Pop. My dad's dad. I was 13 months. I have always loved this photo -- shows a tenderness which I very sadly don't remember, but must be stored somewhere away in the depths of my heart.
I don't remember much of him because we left Poland when I was six (and they lived in another city, anyway, so we didn't see them often), but I do remember visiting their house and getting up at the crack of dawn as little kids are wont to do, and he, being an early riser, hanging out with me and making me breakfast and hot cocoa.
1 comment:
What a lovely photo, he looks like he is telling you all his wisdom on life.
Just beautiful.
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