I imagine this is what being a grandparent must feel like—watching your grandchild erupt into laughter and feeling that joy as if it were your own. CR looking at me in this photo... it’s like he’s memorizing my happiness, soaking it in with the deepest kind of love. The kind that doesn’t ask for anything in return. The kind that simply is. I now know this feeling as a parent—and recognize that he gave that kind of love so freely, so often, to so many. But CR wasn’t just our grandfather. He was a great-grandfather. A protector. A constant. And not just to us—he was that and more to anyone lucky enough to be in his orbit. I can’t think of a single person whose life wasn’t touched, shaped, or softened by him. His love, sharp wit, and steady presence extended far beyond bloodlines. It reached neighbors, friends, strangers. His impact rippled. On April 4, at age 96, we lost him. The quiet strength at the center of our family. When you lose someone like CR, it’s not just the loss of a person—it’s the loss of a whole world. It’s the smell of their home, the sound of their laugh, their bowl of popcorn, the recliner they never moved from, and the four tiny TVs stacked beside it so he could keep an eye on every game. The way they said “hhhey!” when you walked through the door. It’s the stories about the family of frogs along the Frio River in Concan, Texas. The two frogs who made four, who made eight, who made thirteen—just like our family, all swimming and singing, lighting fireworks every 4th of July, and sticking together. A story that always made us feel like everything would be okay. His absence is loud. But what echoes louder is the legacy he leaves behind. It’s in how we show up for each other. In the way we love our kids, laugh freely, and keep going. It lives in Meme, his beloved wife, who now carries both her own quiet strength and CR’s legacy in her heart. To be loved by CR was to be deeply seen, held, and celebrated. Now it’s our turn to carry that forward—for him.