I hate that he’s not here anymore. That he can’t call me to
remind me to switch my clocks forward in the spring, even though my phone
already does it for me. I hate that he’s not here to correct my grammar. To
improve my vocabulary. To tell me hey is
for horses. I hate that I can’t bring him egg salad sandwiches on Easter, and
sit on his couch and tell him about my latest adventure. I hate that I can
never again sit across from him for lunch at Red Rock Cafe. And I hate that
there are people in this world that will never know him. I think that’s the
worst part. Yeah, that’s definitely the worst part.
I hate that he’ll never write me another letter - written in
a black felt tip pen, on yellow legal paper, important facts highlighted with
red stars and hearts. That I never told him how special those letters were to
me. That I’ve kept every single one of them. I hate that I have a letter here,
a letter that I wrote, that my grandpa never received.
The evening of the 26th was a rather restless
one. Unable to sleep, I awoke before dawn with the urge to write my grandpa a
letter. I’ve received weekly letters from my grandpa from the moment I left
home six years ago, so in his declining health it seemed only fitting that I
returned the gesture. I had written one previously, just a week before. But this
time, when I set out to write, yellow legal pad in front of me, black felt tip
pen in hand, all that came through me was grief. Not wanting to be overly
sentimental (my grandpa was never big on that), I struggled with words. I
shared with him my latest ventures, how festive my house was for the holidays,
and how ready I was for a vacation from work. All the while trying to avoid the
elephant in the room. But I never got to send it. It’s sitting here, on my
nightstand, addressed and ready to go, but that’s as far as it’ll get. Later
that morning, my grandpa passed. What initially started as cancer in his brain shortly
took over his whole body, and then took his life just days after Christmas.
It only really feels real when I stop. When there’s nothing
left to distract my mind. When something reminds me of him. The smell of tic
tacs. A Brooks Brothers polo. A felt tip pen. It’s when I stop, that it hurts
the most. My throat tightens. My eyes blur. And my jaw quivers. That’s when
it’s the worst. Don’t get me wrong, my grandpa lived an incredible life. He
traveled the world, raced fast cars, and had great loves. He leaves behind a
great legacy, Napa is better because of him – there’s even a building with his
name to prove it. The world is better because of him. An outstanding man, he sets
the bar high. So high, I doubt anyone can fill his raggedy old topsider shoes. I
just wish I had appreciated that more while he was here. That I would have
smiled in the candid photos that were always his favorite to take. That I was
more proud than embarrassed when he insisted on pulling in to the jock lot to pick me up from cheerleading
practice. That I made more time for phone calls and lunches. So I guess if I
could write another letter, that’s what I’d say. But I think he probably
already knows, you know? Grandpa’s are smart like that. At least mine was. And
he hates when I say you know. My bad.
Man, that was depressing. And long. Sorry about that one. I swear I’m
usually not such a Debbie Downer. In fact, something cool happened today that
was anything but depressing. Actually, it was the opposite of depressing. It
was uplifting. I practiced yoga this
morning guided by intention. Don’t
ask, I saw a flyer for it and it sounded cool. And I’m an easy sell. The idea
was to close this year in peace, and set your intention for the new. Um, hi
perfect timing. We began the class with a piece of paper, a pen, and a prompt.
I began to write. Part one was to ask. Ask for what you want. Part two was to
act. And part three was to feel gratitude for whatever the outcome. We folded it up, set it under our mats and meditated on it throughout our practice, only to rip it up at the end, freeing ourselves of the past year.
You guys,
my mom is probably dyinggg as she reads this right now. She’s tried to hammer
this into my thick skull for forever. This is, like, her dream for me. It’s totally
her mantra. I bet she’s read this at least seventeen times to make sure her
eyes aren’t deceiving her. But it’s true, Mom. I did it.
I asked for peace. I know, I know. So general, but hear me
out. I asked to be at peace with my grandpa’s passing. For patience and
understanding because I know the process is tough. I asked for the strength to be
okay. To be happy without him here. I think I could probably make that happen
by giving myself a little grace. By being patient and trusting myself, and
knowing that I can let my grandpa live through
me. And for that, I’m grateful.
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