Regrets

Yesterday's visit by the grandchildren prompted memories of times when I was the grandchild, and my grandparents were alive. Dad was absent most of time during the first five years of my life (WWII), and his parents were very involved in raising me. I was the first grandson, and much loved.

I remember how Nana cried when I emigrated to the USA. She thought she would never see me again. She did -- but not very often. She wrote to me, just as she wrote to her four sons while they were overseas during the war. I wasn't very prompt in replying -- I was busy with my job and family -- and it was hard to explain how different life was in my new country.

Those excuses sound so feeble to me now. I'd give anything to be able to tell her how sorry I am.