"I beg your pardon, I never promised you a rose garden...."
My grandparents were daycare for me since both my parents needed to work to pay the mortgage. I didn't mind, I loved them; they were so good to me. Sometimes they'd even sing to me, the way my grandfather did when he'd drive me along the mile of road that led to my parents house.
He was particularly fond of the song Rose Garden. Even at a single-digit age, I could feel the far, far away storm clouds brewing when he sang it. Sort of like, you are very fortunate, but life is hard, too. Don't let it surprise you.
Somehow, gramps, it did. Life is harder than I expected, much harder at times. Why did the song have to be right?
Years later, scarred and battered and bruised, I think back and find gratitude: you sang to me and took me places and played with me and looked out for me and challenged me and wrote good memories onto my soul because you loved me. And, somehow, that makes all those scars acquired along the way seem like a drop in the rain bucket.
You know what gramps? Maybe that was the ultimate message that you wanted me to hear.