My grandfather passed away very suddenly while I was living in Sydney, and I couldn’t make it home to say goodbye. This is my letter to him.
Dear Pop,
I don’t even remember replying to Laura’s message. I re-read the conversation once my mind settled an hour or so later. The word stood there in disbelief.
Stop.
Stop.
Stop.
I had been wishing ever since I hung up FaceTime with Michael just one hour earlier this morning. I pushed aside the tears, I got dressed for work. I prayed the whole time on the train into the city. I told myself not to worry. I wished you’d be okay. I wished for just one more day.
That wish felt like a mantra coursing through my veins: One more day. I wished to turn back time. I wished with every bone in my body that I could just have one more day with you, one more hug and one more laugh.
It’s almost like I tricked my mind into thinking it can happen. It seemed so real: I could see the two of us sitting there and I could feel you sweeping me up into your big arms, planting a big kiss on my cheek. I can hear your laugh; you always laughed with so much of your face, so much of your belly, and it was always a hard laugh that just rocketed itself from the back of your throat.
I am teetering on a line of disbelief and reality. One moment I feel like I could call you tomorrow. The next moment I find the words stabbing me in the gut, Never again, and my eyes pool up and breath quickens and the world just spins around me.
You’re the only person in the world I want a hug from right now.
But enough.
I did get to see you one last time, though. My heart smiles at the thought of our FaceTime session last week. I got to see you one last time, but I wish I had called once more.
I have a timer that goes off on my phone each week to call you, to say hi, to see how you’re doing, to reignite your memory with my voice. I didn’t call last Wednesday when my timer went off because we had just FaceTimed. Next week I’ll call, I told myself.
I wish I had called one more time. I wish I had called one last time. Just one more day.
But when I called Non today she told me my card arrived that very morning, that you got to see photos of me and Dane and of our adventures in Australia. You read my card. You read my words. You loved my card. You loved my words. You loved my photos.
She said you sat there watching the History Channel, reading my card and looking at my photos. You knew I loved you. You knew I thought of him with every step I’ve taken throughout the past three years.
I sent the pictures and the card for you. Don’t ever tell Nonni, because we don’t want her getting jealous, but I sent them for you.
I sent them for you so that you’d never forget me, because I knew you were starting to forget some things. I knew you couldn’t hold on to all the little details. I sent the photos to you so that despite the fact that I live on the other end of the world, you’d never forget me, no matter what else you may have started to forget in life.
I remember how I could never figure out what your tattoo was of. You would tell me it was a bird carrying a banner with Non’s name, Palmina, written across the banner. If I scrunched my eyes enough I felt like I could read it. I could just about make the letters out to read her name.
I always thought you were the smartest man I knew, and I still do. You were the first person I called whenever I had a class project. You’d take years and years to answer any question I asked, making sure I would get all the details and didn’t miss a beat of the story. You were training me to be a journalist before either of us knew I would be one. I knew when to zone out, I knew when to perk up my ears, I knew when to build of what you were saying.
I loved spending weeks on end at your house every summer. I remember when I was a kid I used think you were a billionaire. I thought you had all the money in the world and I was the only person you ever wanted to share it with. You worked for newspapers. You owned newspapers. That’s what I thought when I was little.
You’d drive us to the mall, you’d sit and you’d wait while Non and I went around to all the stores and you’d be as patient as ever.
We’d always find you in a book store. You’d always wander off and pick up a book and start reading it in the store. We’d come through and find you, and you’d break down a synopsis of the entire book.
You could never stay awake during a movie. The second we’d sit down in the theatre and the lights would go out, Non and I would have to nudge you, Pop, stop snoring!
I think I love candy because of you. I think I got my sweet tooth from you. Your car was always filled with little lollies (by the way, Pop, I get laughed at in Australia for calling them candy instead of lollies). You always ate this wintergreen jelly candy. It was that green, gummy with ridges in it that was coated in sugar. Your breath always had that lingering smell of a fresh winter.
I loved how you could make all of us laugh whenever you made fun of Nonni. I can hear the depths and bellow of your voice whenever she was giving you a hard time, Paalma…Paalma….Paalma, well..shove it up your ass, okay sweetheart?
The first time I bought a BBMak cassette of their hit single, I was with you. I ripped it open and put in into tape player and I turned up the music in the car. I remember asking if you liked it, and you laughed, What are they even saying?
We used to have this joke. You might not remember, because to be honest I barely remember it, but I know it’s written down and documented in birthday cards to and from each other. I’ll have to try and find them when I go home.
You told me a story once about all these bunnies you had as pets growing up. You had so many bunnies, you started to lose count of them. And for some reason, after you told me that story, whenever we’d say happy birthday to each other, we’d say, You’re 72 bunnies! or You’re 10 bunnies old! or 16 bunnies!
We stopped at some point, but I always thought of it with each birthday you had. I said in my heart. I was afraid to make you feel bad if you couldn’t remember.
Your hands always felt like tree stumps compared to mine. They were always rough and weathered, as if you spent your life as a carpenter. I used to love when i was a little girl and you’d rub my back as I watched TV and tried to fall asleep. They were so coarse. I could never mistake them to be anyone’s hands but yours.
You never complained about anything. I never once heard you complain.
I’m trying to keep my head up, and I am trying to make it home to say good bye. I am sorry I’ve been gone for so long. I am sorry that I left you, but I took our memories together everywhere with me.
I can’t imagine going home for Christmas and not seeing you. I can’t imagine not seeing you ever again. I just can’t.
I just want one more day, but for now I will just focus on the good times to get me through.
I imagine you’re in a heaven filled with endless access to the History Channel, the world library of history books and your guilty pleasure of Emergency 911 shows and crime shows and mystery shows that we’d watch until all hours of the night whenever I stayed at your house. You loved those shows.
I love you, and I will always miss you. You were one of the greatest men I ever knew, one of the most gentle and kind people I’ve ever met. There is no one on this earth who has a heart as big as you did.
I love you, and I will always miss you. I’ll keep writing for you.
