Grampa,
How strange to talk directly to you after years of avoiding it. How I regret that. I realize now that you are a lot like my dad, or rather, that my dad is a lot like you. Very technical, mechanical, and detailed, both of you are extremely prone to have long, long conversations. But that's ok. I'm learning to understand you better through your son. I'll bet you're proud of him.
I wonder sometimes if you have regrets about your life. I wonder how often you thought of that time of just hardly being--that time no one really talks about. I wonder how you found Jesus and how you and Yaya lived together. I cry thinking about her and her loss of you, you know. She misses you. We all do.
What makes me sick about myself is that I never really noticed you. You were always, always there. You were there with a smile and a hug and stories to tell, but I never understood that you actually loved us. You were mechanical beyond my understanding and I could never follow all the details of your stories, but you put them in there because you wanted me to understand. Come to think of it, I can't really remember a story that you told me. I am so guilty of ignoring you. I can never begin to describe how sorry I am for that.
When they read that story you and a friend wrote, that hilarious story that I need to read again to remember it, I was shocked. You were so funny, Grampa! I never knew. I didn't even know you, but I saw you enough that I should have. I should have gotten to know you because you were such an awesome person. Now I never will, but I still have my dad. My dad loved you and so did your daughters. They still do. And they miss you. I look for you at parties still. I want you to step out of that little silver car with Yaya, you from the driver's seat because she hates to drive, and smile that quiet smile that said so much when you said so little.
That's something that intrigues me--your affinity for telling a story so long-winded no one ever saw the end in sight, but you were so quiet. You were shy and humble, like a little mouse, but if you were interested in something, you would always want to know every single detail about it. You always asked me questions about school and what I was doing, but I never took the time to answer like I should have. I am sorry. I really do wish we could have known each other.
You were creative, a handy carpenter, a quietly loving father and grandfather, and a very caring husband. I really wish I had known that before it was too late. It's my fault and I know it, but I also know that I can read this letter to you someday, and we can discuss whatever we want. Can't wait to see you again, Grampa.
Until then,
Your Granddaughter
One of my grandfathers was a carpenter, too, and quiet, but not a writer. He was very serious but would laugh at the jokes my uncles told.
ReplyDeleteMy letter would be to my mother, about how many things I wish I had considered when she was alive, even things like how birth order and family size can affect personality. She was the middle of five children, four of them female, and I don't think she ever felt special till my dad came along. Married at 17, she didn't really have a chance to grow up or become her own person before she was a wife.
Anyway, thank you for your blog entries. They make me think.