My grandfather wasn’t much of a reader and I mean the book kind of reader. The moments I got to be with him, he never left the house. Every morning he would get up, grab the newspaper, puts on his glasses and told me a story. Every day he would tell me a story of how things ended up. Every night he would grab his glasses and write in a notebook he used to have. Every time I always wondered what he was writing. Every moment I was with him I thought: “maybe he is writing what he did in the day, maybe doing some math’s in order to pay his bills but probably making a different story for the next day or maybe he was just drawing”. I was never able to see what he was doing with his notebook, but it was always in my mind. When he left, my father gave me his glasses and when I did put them on I was able to see the world the way he did. I understood why he was able to create stories in that moment, the world was more of everything. It was Indescribable, scary, beautiful, melancholy, happiness, anger, joy, the world was new and yet old. I’ve never been able to relive that moment. I wish my grandfather was able to teach me more of his world. I wish my grandfather would have told me more stories. I wish I could have known him a little more. I wish he could have been here to listen to my stories. I remember bits of him, but I remember all of his stories. Stories are ways to link with a person either in life or death. It could be any story: made up, fantasy, scary, anecdote, a real-life event, a diary or even a memory. Stories live on, people don’t. Everything is made of stories, this poem, a person, a song, a pencil, or some old reading glasses. Some stories can’t be read or understood, some stories need to be explained or maybe they don’t, maybe they just need time. Time to shape, time to be understood, time to transmit the message, time to live on, time to transform and rise in my grandfather’s glasses. The story of a person’s life, which is no different from ours, just told in a very special way.