I was a Papaw's girl. I remember going to his house all the time. I remember watching "Looney Tunes" and being swallowed up by the light brown recliners. I remember all the little Santas at Christmas time. I remember every story about how much everyone hated that black cat they named, ironically, Inky. I remember the peach pies made over a fire. I remember the white birch tree out back. And the fishing. I remember the fishing.

What I wish I could remember is the sound of my grandfather's laugh. I have pictures. I remember all his jokes, his favorite things — but not his laugh.

I remember talking about vacation for months. How, as a kid, I thought Tennessee was such a foreign place. I remember the look on my sister's face when we talked about seeing a bear or hiking up a mountain. I remember packing. I remember being so excited.

My grandfather got sick when I was in the fifth grade. We didn't know what it was. We just thought it was something little. Something that would push our vacation back a week or two. The flu maybe. Everyone gets the flu sometime in their life, right?

I remember telling him it wasn't his fault the vacation was canceled. I remember praying at night that he'd be OK. I remember him losing so much weight. I remember him turning yellow. I remember losing hope.

Cancer. They told me it was cancer in the dining room. I didn't believe them. How does that happen? What is a pancreas? Why to him? He never got sick. He never complained about feeling bad. Why him? Why now? They told me about chemo, and I wanted to know if he'd lose his hair.

I'll never understand why people get cancer. How someone so kind hearted can get something so awful.

I remember asking to go there every night after I knew. I remember him not being able to sit in his big recliner anymore. I remember his hospital bed in the middle of the living room. I remember his last good day. I remember all the hot dogs we ate and all of the golf I watched to make him happy.

I wish we could've gone on that one last vacation. That cancer could've waited one week.

I remember sitting in the funeral home. I remember getting countless hugs from people who I didn't even know. I remember all the flowers and the blankets. I remember how I couldn't cry because there was nothing left. I remember the dress I wore and how itchy it was.

I wish I would've paid more attention to him. Paid attention to the way he smiled, the way he walked, even the way he yelled at me and my sister for arguing. Maybe if I'd listened more, I could remember the way his voice sounded. Or if I'd hugged him more, I could remember the smell of his cologne.

I wish I could tell my 10-year-old self to listen more, to love more, to pay more attention.

I wish he could've seen me graduate. I wish he could've been there when my sister got contacts. I wish he could've seen me sing in my high school choir. I wish he was here for every bump in the road. I wish he was here to see my mom and dad. I wish I could forget all the sad memories and remember the things that meant the most.

Please pay attention to the people you love. Appreciate everything they do for you. Everything from putting food in your belly to making you laugh so hard you cry to sitting next to each other in silence. Tell them you love them. Go see them whenever you can.

My grandfather was an amazing man. A mechanic with a love for old music. He wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty. His hugs made me feel like a princess and anyone who spoke to him knew he was the funniest guy you'd ever meet.

I wish I would've paid more attention. To every piece of advice he gave me and every joke he told my father. I wish he was still here. I would give anything to get to pay attention to him one last time.