My grandfather has been gone for twenty years, but I find myself thinking about him often. As a kid, my grandfather’s gruff exterior and his viselike hugs made me a bit wary of getting too close. I can vividly remember the momentary panic that would engulf me when I’d dash past his recliner. It was like a game of cat and mouse, his arms stretched out to grab me, and with a playful growl, he’d pull me close. It was a game that Grandpa played expertly. One that I didn’t get the gist of until I grew older. One that I wish I could play again.

Until Grandpa died, he lived on the farm, where he raised nine children alongside my grandmother. The house was a small white two-story, with the eaves sagging from age as a chimney stood like a sentinel. Crossing over the threshold brought you back in time with the retro-era hanging light, which emitted a soft, yellow glow over the cherry table where we devoured Grandma’s cinnamon rolls and Grandpa’s bean soup. For years the same red-rust and orange floral couch swallowed you up as you sank into the cushions while Grandpa’s chair sat facing the large picture window.

Sundays, we visited the farm and wandered the mysteries of the land and fields. Its flat, dusty paths led us to barns stacked with hay that seemed mountainous to a young girl. The livestock bellows echoed as my sisters, and I ran to the back field that stretched long and wide. Tired old tractors, plows, and wagons sat among the tall grass, waiting to work up the land once more.

I miss this farm and the man that called it home. I miss the Sunday evening visits with Grandpa’s booming voice as he stomped up the creaking basement steps yelling, “Who wants some ice cream?” And even though it was slightly freezer-burned, you were too scared to say no because it was Grandpa, so how could you?

The farm and Grandpa were worn and calloused, but underneath lay a treasure—a warm, albeit at times rugged embrace. And, reflecting on who my grandfather was, I now recognize the myriad forms that the language of love can take on, and it taught me that sometimes the less likely embodiments are the most lovely.