I sit with you on the living room couch,

And see the photo albums from the table.

I grab the album dated: June 2, 1956.

I open the book and the crisp smell of old cardstock hits my nose.

I see your smiling face light up the black and white photos.

It is easy to see the man standing next to you can light up the room.

Pictured in your white dress,

I have never seen you smile so big.

You grin as you see the pictures of you,

walking down the aisle,

dancing with your parents,

and cutting the first slice of cake.

Soon your grin begins to fade,

I want to say “he is looking with us.”

or “It will be okay.”

But that can’t bring back your smile,

grandpa caused on your wedding day.