On Friday my grandfather passed away. It was expected. We’d
been waiting and aware. In many ways it’s a relief to him and his caretakers.
He’s no longer ailing and old.
And yet.
I didn’t expect it. He’d been hanging on so long I believe I’d
begun to think it would never happen. That he would always be here. As a teenager I helped do house and yard work
several times a week. I spent a lot of time watching and learning from him. He
lived next door to me and his home was my second home.
Many of my cousins and family have been posting remembrances
of him on facebook. I can’t.
I’m a writer. I should be able to put down a few
words, a story of our time together.
And yet.
The words choke in my throat and I’m unable to push them
out. How can I write what I can barely feel? How can words encompass a life
such as his?
I worry that this makes me less. Less feeling, less worthy,
less loving. If so, so be it.
I am what I am, and right now I am missing him.
