Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • I never knew him. I never will. He was my grandfather.
    He died before my time. Seven years in fact.

    George was a good man. Gertrude, his wife, was my grandmother. Or, to me, just Grandma B. She and I used to slow dance in her living room, all around that odd green carpet, to crackling records that reminded me of times I had never been alive. She loved him. Always, and forever. She spent the rest of thirty years wishing he weren't gone.

    I will never know him better, or, at all, and, still, I think about him often.
    • Share

    Connected stories:


Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.