Little Stories

 

I lost my grandfather recently. He always told little stories at thanksgiving.

He wasn’t in good health, but it was still sudden.

I’m twenty-eight years old. It was the first time I ever saw my father cry.

His mom passed a few years prior, but Alzheimer’s had her sick for a long time. Her passing was a different sort.

I went home, we talked. I listened to stories. We cracked a few beers. We talked about family and circumstance. It was hard.

My mother wept when my father wasn’t around.

She never knew her own father.

My brother cleaned, I tried to make small talk. Together we tried to support the parents that had always supported us.

It was wholly uncomfortable

It was grief

I’d love to write a wonderful tribute to his life. He deserves it. He faced his demons and raised four sons and a daughter, he was kind and proud and had that spark of wit.

But my father and his brothers and sister and the lineage they’ve created are a better tribute than I could ever write.

My father is extraordinary. One day I hope I can be to my son what he is to me.

Death sucks. And nothing will ever reconcile the fact that one day you have both of your parents and then another day you don’t.

I can’t make that easier on my dad. No one will ever one day far away make it easier on me.

I don’t know that I have much to say on loss. I wish I had some wisdom that I learned. Some nugget of truth. But truthfully.

It just hurts

I have my wife and son, and I love them dearly. But in my mind, I think my parent will always be that mental safety net. The people I can always go to for help. When others depend on me, I depend on them.

Meeting the world without them seems impossibly hard.

 

Grandma and Grandpa,

I’m so thankful for you and everything you were

Mom and Dad,

I love you and I’m so proud of everything you are.

 

I’ll miss those little stories

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