My grandfather passed away February 2012. He was a carpenter who talked much about the corrupt system that governs us all. I remember being six years old, sitting at the kitchen table of their old home, with the fluorescent lights beaming down. My parents would be engaged in some adult conversation about the nearing apocalypse or fraudulent reptilian political figures while my sister and I kept ourselves busy with these ceramic figurines from my Poppy’s Red Rose Tea boxes. He collected them on the little ledge of the chalkboard that he made himself. This memory is warm and vivid like a cup of red rose tea. The passage of time cools things off like a heated argument or a cup of coffee, but no matter how much time has passed since my grandfather’s death, my memories of him will still be warm and rich.