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I was always in the light.
I was his light.
The thought only breaks my heart more as I dart my gaze in the other direction, looking down at the coffee table that rests beside the couch.
On it is a simple empty glass—sweet tea.
A lamp—Gramps never liked to sit in the dark.
An album.
I freeze.
I wipe away the rest of my tears, for I can hardly trust the words I just read on the front are true.
“My time in Crawley.”
My shaky hands grab the album and flip it open to the first page. And right off the bat, I see Alf.
I can’t help but giggle at the thought that…there he is. Two decades younger, with at least 90% less gray hairs than he has now.
He’s standing with Gramps, yet the two of them aren’t looking at the camera. Instead, they’re sitting in the stands and appear to be looking out onto the field. There’s a sense ofoverwhelming joy in Gramps’ eyes—one that I always saw when he was watching his beloved football team.
I flip the page.
The next photo is a series of images. Now, Gramps is in action. He’s on the field, playing with the team, laughing as he falls down during one of the drills—must be a Matthews thing, I can’t help but think.
I don’t recognize a single player. These photos are old…none of these guys are on the team anymore. Most probably don’t even play.
And that’s how it is for the majority of the album as I flip through. Smiling at the photos just because I recognize every single location in there. They’re now places where I’ve been able to make my own memories during my own time in Crawley.
Only a few pages remain, but this time, as I flip to the next, my breath gets caught in my throat.
Warren.
There he is. Fifteen…sixteen years old, maybe. I can’t tell. All I know is that he’s young. A bright-eyed teenager, standing beside Gramps.
There’s not been a single photo where I’ve seen Gramps show affection to these players, but in this photo with Warren, there he is. Arm wrapped around his shoulder, with a proud look in his eyes.
I gently brush my fingertips over Gramps’ face in the photo before instinctively moving them over to Warren. It’s strange seeing them both together as if two of my most important worlds are colliding—two men that I loved. Two men who loved each other.
I wish so badly I could have spent time with them together.
The tears threaten to prickle my eyes again before I gulp them down and continue to flip through. I can’t get enough.There’s dozens of pictures of Warren, all joined by special hand-written notes by Gramps.
“An up-and-coming Crawfield star.”
As I continue to flip through, he slowly becomes more than just “another star” to Gramps. Suddenly, he’sWarren.
“Warren’s first signing.”
“Warren’s first match.”
“Meeting Warren’s Mum.”
The story is a beautiful one, showcasing the relationship that Gramps built with Warren over the years they knew each other. Seeing the love on Gramps’ face grow with each year that passed and Warren stayed by his side—watching them grow together.
The narrative changes again, and now the words on the page no longer belong to a name—they belong to “my boy.”
