“When a storm comes, my compass always points to the clear skies ahead.” My grandfather says before taking his compass and its chain off from around his neck. He holds it in his delicate grasp. It’s gold shell a constant reminder of memories had. “You know my dear boy, when I was fifteen my father gave this to me, and when your father was fifteen I gave it to him. Now the time has come for it to be passed to you.” I wince, my father died from cancer when I was seven.

I meet my grandfathers weathered eyes, and understand it was my _father_ who was supposed to pass the compass down to me not him,_ my father_. The revelation saddens my heart but gives my mind a strange sense of peace. “It’s been passed down many generations in our family.” He continues while rubbing his thumb over its surface, a hint of melancholy in his eyes. My grandfather then, with shaking hands, brings the compass to his lips, giving it a gentle kiss, as if he were saying goodbye to a dear friend.

He then gestures for me to hold out my hand, and I do. He places the compass in my palm before guiding my fingers to close around it. I feel the weight of it. I feel the weight of what it signifies, what it means to my family. “May you always find blue skies my boy.” He tells me, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Thank you,” I say hoarsely, a bitter sweet smile appearing on my face.

“I love you child.” My grandfather says.

“Love you grandpa.” I say back as I wrap him in a hug. A tear slides down my cheek.

It’s also my fifteen birthday today.🎊