Today marks the 22 year of my grandfather's passing. Pictured above with his oldest son on the left, and my father on the right. These men, each one of them, passed far far too soon.
Sometimes I can't believe it's been 22 years since my grandpa has gone. 4 years this year since my dad. 2 years since my uncle. All of them, leaving my grandma devoid of men in her family, and her life.
I don't remember much about my grandpa. I was seven when he died. I remember him having lukemia, being sick in the hospital, drawing pictures for his hospital room, having to be snuck in to say goodby because there was a “no children allowed” rule. I feel like like gyped me as I never really got to spend time with either of my grandfathers1. I don't remember what it's like to have a grandpa.
I do remember stories of my grandpa. He was married before; my grandma was his second wife, and they married when she was 17 and he was 26. He held a myriad of jobs, and was retired before my aunts graduated high school. He was a writer.
I'm sure it seems weird to do a memorial for a man who I can't really remember, on such an odd year. But the last few years have reminded me that we don't celebrate people like we should, and we forget people we should remember.
I wish I could remember my grandfather. I wish that my future children could have had the experience of their grandfather, who they will only know through stories and pictures.
I know that you never really truly know someone, but I am infinitely sad that I only got 7 years to know a man who shaped my whole family in ways I will never now understand.
While my Mom's father died more recently when I was 27, he lived on the east coast, and I saw him only rarely. ↩