People have died while I have been gone. Many of them, actually. But I think the news of my grandpa’s death actually made the world adjust to an upright position and freeze momentarily just so that I would have time to let that sucker-punch to the heart really sink in.
It was a cruel move, world, and I know you’ll kick me as soon as I start to stand back up. So I might just stay down here for a while longer.
All of a sudden, family isn’t a Skype call away. They are 8,122 miles away. Give or take.
And I tried to think of what I would have said to my grandpa if I had been able to speak with him one more time. The best I could come up with was to thank him for that time when I was maybe five, and I made it my five year-old life mission to complete this very lengthy “Book about Me” that covered everything from what I knew I was going to be when I grew up (paleontologist) to my mother’s middle name, to how many steps it was from my house to the nearest convenience store. The problem with filling out this one was that is was ironically very inconvenient for anyone to walk to the convenience store. Grandpa, and all of his disdain for crowds made a walk to the convenience store with his granddaughter seem nice. We walked to the closest gas station, bought candy corn, and walked back. I was a champion because my book was complete, and Grandpa was my hero because five year-olds cannot walk to the gas station alone, no matter how many times they ask, and no matter just how big they can make their puppy-dog eyes.
My favorite memory of my grandpa was actually at my grandma’s funeral. Everyone deals with grief differently, of course, but Grandpa and I needed a quiet place to be alone, and the house was full of people who wanted to hug us. The teenage musician in me was drawn to the very out-of-tune guitar in the corner. Somehow I got a pack of new guitar strings and I snuck off as quickly as I could to a bedroom where I thought no one could find me. Grandpa new the best rooms for hiding in his own home, and about three minutes after my brilliant escape, he found me. He didn’t say a word as he sat down in the rocking chair next to me. I looked up at him for some kind of affirming eye contact, but there was none. I went back to stringing a hopelessly old guitar, he continued rocking, and I learned the importance of being able to be alone with someone.
My arms hurt from thinking about how far I’d be willing to stretch them to hug my dad. This headache won’t go away because my mind is trying so hard to dig up any memories, but I honestly don’t have that many. I sent an email to my mom and dad asking for stories, and now we are working on compiling some. I love quiet people. I love how their minds work, but the problem is, once they are gone, the mysteries of the inner-workings of their mind have no way of becoming tangible anymore. At least, in this time.
And I celebrate his life. As my mom wrote, "He was generous to a fault," which I now have the privilege of seeing lived out by my father. And some day, I hope to be known in the same way, once I finally have something to give.
