Grandpa Sheranian

In the corner of the den in my grandparents house is a big, comfortable recliner. It sits in front of the sliding glass door that looks out onto the backyard. Next to it is an end table with a lamp, a telephone, and a pad of paper and pencil to take messages. On the other side is a small wooden piece of furniture about the size of a moving box that is designed to hold magazines. In it you can find Newsweek, Time, National Geographic, Car and Driver, Consumer Reports, the AAA Magazine, the LA Times Magazine, and the Reader’s Digest. You can usually find a few Louis L’Amour books shoved in there too.

The recliner has changed over time—but the one constant is its occupant: my Grandpa Sheranian. Most of my memories of Grandpa come from moments while he was sitting in that chair. Memories of him grabbing me, pinning my arms behind my back, and tickling me until I begged, “Mercy! Mercy!” Memories of coming over for Sunday dinner and watching episode after episode of “I Love Lucy” because grandpa willingly changed the channel from the game when we came over. Memories of finding grandpa comfortably reclining flipping through a magazine or reading a good western.

Even now when I call the house, the phone usually doesn’t ring more than twice because Grandpa is right there to pick it up. And when I talk to him, I can see him in my mind, sitting just right where he should be.