There's a short list of things that can bring tears to my eyes.

Sappy movies where someone beloved by a child has to go away.

Videotaped reunions of anyone with their dog.

When I bang my knee just hard enough on the pointiest edge of the coffee table.

Opening the newspaper to spot a photo of my grandfather, seven years after his death, accompanied by a letter to the editor naming him as one of the many people recalled fondly from our community.

There's a hope that our family will carry our legacies after we're gone.

I try. I think of my grandparents often, of what it is they would have done in a situation. It's not always a path I'd take — I'm two generations removed, after all — but often it's just the answer I needed.

When I think of my grandfather, I find myself able to smile more and be more kind to strangers. When I think of my grandmother, I find myself able to be more honest and forthright.

I carry them with me, as do my cousins.

But ours is a special connection, one forged over Fudge Stripe cookies in the kitchen and banter in the backyard, through hugs and back cracks.

Holding these people dear has been baked into our DNA.

There's no such hold over the sorts of people who aren't a literal part of the family, over the sorts of people who would write a letter to the editor.

So when it happens, it tends to make you cry. Just as hard as you might over a reunion of a kid and his missing dog.