A/N: This is AU, as I injected bits of Peter into my grandpa (and vice versa) for the sake of the story. I'm sorry if it doesn't make sense...I guess it's personal, and if you knew my grandpa, you'd get it. I normally wouldn't post this, but its the first postable thing I've written in over three months, so I made it Peter Pan, and put it up. Please, no flames. Thank you. Enjoy.

Awfully Big Adventure

Peter Pan was seventy-seven-years-old. He was an adult now, but he didn't mind as much as he had thought he would. Aches and pains were annoying, but he found that if he just refused to think about them, they mostly went away. Medicine wasn't all that bad—it turns out there wasn't a sticky, sweet kind—one swallow and it was over. Silver hair and glasses didn't look so bad on him. No. Growing old wasn't really bad at all.

Besides, he never really grew up anyway. His eyes still twinkled brightly, and his smile was always tugging at the corners of his mouth. He could still run (well, maybe it was just a fast walk), and the only work he did was work he enjoyed, work that involved his hands, his tools, and the wood he could shape to be anything he wanted it to be. He could still whistle and hum all he wanted, and he was never at a loss for conversation. His children (and then his grandchildren) never left him lonely. His jokes were still laughed at and he was still full of mischief. So there were no Lost Boys, but his granddaughters kept him on his toes. And he learned that love was the best thing in the whole world.

Growing old turned out to be unavoidable. Growing up, however, was optional, and no one could ever make him do it. He stayed a child forever, at heart. And he never slowed down until the very end.

Perhaps he couldn't fly, but he could imagine. And there was no imagination more vivid than his. Perhaps he couldn't fight pirates, but he could work wood. And no work was more perfect than his. Perhaps he couldn't run, but he could play. And no games were more fun than the ones he created. Perhaps he wasn't a little boy anymore, but he could love. And there was no one with a bigger heart, and brighter smile, a warmer embrace, or a happier laugh. And there was no one more loved.

Everyone who ever met him loved him, and no one ever forgot him. When it came time for the awfully big adventure, there were at least sixty cars at his funeral. There were more flowers than could be counted from the people who had loved him. And the memories were stronger than the tears. After all, he wouldn't have wanted them to cry. He would have wanted them to laugh, and after a while, that wasn't so terribly hard to do. Because they knew that somewhere up above them, he was bowling during the thunderstorms, and dancing in the snow, and cracking jokes with angels, and laughing with those who had gone before him. He was having fun, and he was waiting for them to show up, and when they did, he would laugh, and ask them what had taken them so long. And then they would laugh too, knowing that it would be okay. He was having fun, and they were almost positive he had learned how to fly again. After all, he never really had grown up. He was still a child, and at the same time, he was very much a grown-up. But mostly, he was loved.

For, as you know, all children grow up…except one…


To Opa, my very own Peter Pan, who took up Captain James Cancer Hook's offer of the Awfully Big Adventure in June '07. To Opa, who never really ever grew up, and who was the absolute best grandpa any girl could have, and who I miss very much. To Opa, who was loved more than anyone else in this world, and who will never be forgotten, and who is waiting for us upstairs. Thank you.

Love, your snookems,


who knows you're watching her and her sister, but still wishes you were here.

To anyone else who has lost a family member to Captain Cancer, my condolences. Memoriae fortior quam fletus sunt. Memories are stronger than tears. I hope you didn't hate my little memory-fic.

Thank you, Shadow