Insert a Snappy Clever Title Here

I found out yesterday that the little old man that lived in the apartment across from us died. He was always really sweet to us, and had an adorable little dog, I think she was a corgi. A couple times a year he would insist on shaving her, which looked ridiculous because except for her fuzzy little head and her tail, she would be completely bald.

Anyway, I knew he was old, and sick, he had spent a stint in the hospital at the beginning of the year, but I had never thought about anything happening to him, but I still did everything I could think of. For Christmas he got homemade fudge and every couple of days we would take his trash out for him so he wouldn’t have to be out in the cold.

I knew that in the middle of last week he went back to the hospital. I had been reading in bed when I saw the flashing lights outside. I didn’t see him again, but every couple of days on my way home I would look to see if there were paw prints in the snow from Roxi, or if his lights were on. Then yesterday morning I woke up to a loud knocking on the apartment door.

It was his sister. She wanted to let us know that he had passed. They were starting to clean out his apartment and she remembered how he had mentioned us several times, that he always had something nice to say. She thought we deserved to know.

After I talked to her I went back to bed, and curled up in a ball, trying to ignore the pressure in my chest. I spend hours trying not to think about the fact that I talked to this man four or five times a week, I took his trash to the dumpster, helped him get Roxi inside when she was being difficult, but I didn’t know his name. I tried not to think about how this ache reminded me of the same one I’ve been fighting for almost a year. I tried not to think, but all I could think about was Papa.

It’s been almost a year since I lost my grandfather. In fact, in two months and two days it will be a year. I don’t think about it all the time or anything…

People keep saying this is going to get easier, but instead of waiting for it to not hurt, I think I’m going to go drink an insane amount of coffee and write something.

Have a good day, everyone!

Rainbows from Tears

So I survived the reunion. It turns out it wasn’t quite as bad as I thought it would be. There was a lot of talk about Papa. Wanda, my Papa’s cousin who runs these things, read quite a bit that people wrote about him and a poem. She talked about how she knew he was here with us and loved that we ended up bringing 26 people with us in honor of him. Basically she talked until we were all in tears. And of course that was when she wanted us to all get up there and take a family picture. I’m sure there will be lots of red eyes in those.
I have to admit, I’m glad I went. I’m glad that I know for a fact now that Papa really is living on it all of us.
When we got home it had been sprinkling, spitting rain drops every few minutes. Then my little cousin Joel pointed up, yelling about a rainbow. The whole family ended up in the driveway and he was right. There was a beautiful double rainbow just above the house. From the front porch you could see a very distinct rainbow going from the cow pasture next door over the trees and into the mountains. Like Dani told Nana, it looked like Papa really was here for the reunion, he was here with all of us, showing us how much he appreciated and loved today.
And with that knowledge, I think I can go to bed tonight, maybe not happy, but much more at peace than I was this morning. Papa was the one man who never let me down and was always there for me, rain or shine. Today, even after being gone for three months, he is still here for me.

The Family Reunion

I feel kind of awful, but I’m kind of dreading going to my family reunion this afternoon. This will be the first large family gathering since my grandfather passed away in March. We put together a photo board of pictures of him, we found pictures going back to his childhood. Nana also ordered a cake with his picture on it that I picked up yesterday. I’ll admit, talking about him does help, telling our favorite Papa stories around a bonfire or over a game of cards that he taught us how to play. But the questions are the hardest.

People ask how we’re holding up, if we’re okay. People ask in whispers how Nana’s doing. They ask for the details, holes in the story that they haven’t heard yet. But the worst of it all is the apologies. I’ve lost count of the “I’m sorry”‘s I’ve received in the past three months. I know people are only trying to help, but it just makes me feel worse. Don’t be sorry he’s gone, there’s nothing anyone can do about that. His death was no one’s fault, as much as I wish I had something to blame, I don’t. If you’re going to be sorry for anything, it would be the awful, aching hole in my life, and again, there’s nothing anyone can do.

But now I guess it’s time to face the music. After all, it’s the right thing to do. This reunion was important to Papa, he wanted to be the one who brought the most people. So, here I go. Wish me luck.