Because I was adopted, my biological grandfather and I did not meet until I was in my early 20s. Patrick Farrell was the kindest, gentlest and most Irish man I ever knew. He started St. Patrick’s Day suffering in his hospital bed. He ended it in heaven—a place full of shamrocks, four-leaf clovers and maybe a little Bushmills Irish Whiskey. On my final visit to see him a few weeks ago, he was so weak that he could barely speak. As I said goodbye, he grabbed my arm and would not let go. He was trying to say something, but his lungs could not make words. Finally, he pulled me in close and said, “I never forgot you.” I will never forget you either, grandpa.