Right now it’s still nearly impossible for me to comprehend that I won’t see Grandpa again. He was such a vibrant character. Sometimes mean. Sometimes funny. Impossible to ignore.
On Friday night, I called my brother sobbing. We spoke for two hours.
I spent Sunday at my mom’s house going through his belongings. Hundreds and hundreds of photos. Albums of my brother and me. Meticulously organized albums we never knew he had.
It broke my heart.
For years, more than a decade really, he was mostly unhappy. Bitter. Angry. Lonely. But he fiercely treasured the bright sparks in his life. Right now my pride is so bittersweet. Knowing we made him happy. Knowing he had pictures of my sons on his walls.
When I went to the hospital a month ago to see him, I could not have comprehended that it would be the last time. But I am so grateful that while I was there he told me I looked pretty, that he was proud of me, that I was a good mother. He’d been cold that day, so I hunted down a nurse and got some extra blankets for him. I tucked them around his body and then said goodnight and that I’d see him later.
I hope I said I loved him but I can’t remember if I did.
When the reality of this hits me, it hits me hard.
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