Who am I

The first thing I remember about him is his hand. It was big, strong and somewhere above me. I could only take his little finger and it was enough for my hands. I made my first steps holding those fingers. He had never let me go since. I'm almost thirty and we are still holdings hands when we walk.
He has never been my grandfather, but my friend. He was my friend when I was two years old and he is my friend now, but somehow he grew up with me. We talk about a lot of things and he always understands and knows what to say to make things better. He never seems bored, which is strange because a young girl can say a lot of stupid things. We have secrets and signals, we have our own hello formula and we still play a lot.
I hate not being with him. When we say goodbye we shake our hands manly and I keep my hand close for as long as I can to feel his touch. I drive like this and make peace with the distance between us. Our relation is special, but few people understand it. Some make fun of us because we have so different ages and we still hold hands. Some say that he's old and needs help. But actually I need his help. He was always there for me to get me out of my teenager problems, to help me understand life and its meanings. His stories are always a lesson and believe me he has some great stories to tell. He had been a soldier for five years in the World Second War. He often talks about it, but never complains because in 1940 he was young and that was enough to be happy. His life was never easy, but he kept smiling and enjoying and living every single day. He will never be old, because his spirit is so young - much younger that mine – and his heart is good and strong.
Someday I will write a book about him and my grandmother, about their life together and I will tell all those little and wise things they taught me, all their stories that guide me through life. I hold their hands with love and gratitude. They made me who I am today.