I see myself in the grandfather I didn’t know. I see my steadfast loyalty to my family, as they view me as an “independent, driven, mysteriously affected” type. I see the passion he had for his projects in my every day work with teenagers in my classroom; nothing can break the determination I have to see and help them succeed. I think about the way he spent his last days, alone in his two bedroom condo, no wife, no young kids…..not necessarily lonely, but nevertheless, alone. THIS is when I can understand him. If he were still here, this would be the conversation we could have. I could look him in the eye and feel like I had something to say to him – something real to say, and he could look back at me and know that he and I, though 51 years between us, share something.
I am still crying. And, I now know why. It hurts the most when people, even the ones who didn’t know my grandfather, offer their condolences, and for this reason, I won’t answer the phone quite yet. I am too afraid I’ll begin to cry and not know how to stop. Somewhere in me, I know my grandpop understands this. And, truly, I know that’s all that matters.
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