I Think of You

| death of a grandparent |

I sit outside, the sun seeped into my skin, the sky overhead such a solid blue it reminds me of miracles and false hopes. Blue, in the sense that heals. Blue, in the sense that deceives.

Without bad, there would be no miracles.

Nothing to hope for.

Nothing to heal.

There’s one cloud in the sky, and I think of you. It’s fraying, the white tuft pulled in different directions of the stratosphere, and I think of you.

I look down for five seconds, just long enough to see that bugs haven’t swarmed my coffee.

I look up again.

The cloud’s gone.

And I think of you.

You’re not dead—

But I wonder what this day will feel like when you are.

Will the sun still feel good? Or will it start to burn?

Will I love the color of the sky and find hope, or just rage? Or will I look up, and remember you’re out there somewhere, without a body to hold, a voice to hear, and a home to visit?

I shouldn’t think like this.

But I do.

I ruin the present thinking of the future, but I can’t help but to wonder.

I drink my coffee and it’s sweet.

When you die, will I even be able to stomach it anymore?

I know it won’t have taste. Nothing will.

When you die, will I have aversions to the things I love now? To the things we love and share?

Will I be so struck with grief that I’m sickened by what we loved together?

Dad tells me I need to prepare for your death.

I ask myself— how do I brace for someone to die?

Is this it?

As I stare up into a now cloudless sky on a warm morning, drinking my sweet coffee, wondering how it would feel if you were dead?

Is this how I practice? How I brace?

In life, we all have two commonalities: life, and death, and no one can tell us how to properly expect either.

Maybe that’s the beauty of it.

Maybe that’s godly sadism.

28 years.

That’s a lot of time.

28 years, and you’ve been my best friend since day one.

28 years and I’ll have to learn how to live the rest without you.

I’ll start new.

Start different.

Start scarred and scared.

I look at your name in my phone. My call log is inundated with you. Everyday. Some three minutes. Others forty-five. Sometimes we can’t think of anything to talk about, but I just need to hear your voice. Other times, we can’t shut up. Gossip. Laughter. I google your questions on my phone and read them aloud because you don’t know how. I spend half the time laughing and trying to explain when your stubborn, southern mind can’t comprehend fish tacos or a dinner—sorry, supper—that isn’t deep fried or smothered in gravy. I love that about you.

We’re 227 miles apart.

You didn’t visit much when you could, and you can’t now, really. The travel is too taxing, your body frail.

You still say it’s one of the worst decisions Mom ever made. You forgive her, she’s your daughter.

I can understand. It took me a long time to forgive her, too.

You still ask me why she did it, why she wasn’t happy in the same town as you.

I ask myself the same questions, 22 years later.

Then I think about fate.

Where I am today. Where you are.

Did God want us apart? Separated? Two best friends pulled from the seams and forced to be individuals instead of a team?

Did you have to watch me grow old from afar?

Was it divine punishment, or something to make our love more sacred?

Or was Mom playing God when she uprooted us and forever changed the trajectory of all our lives?

I’ve watched you age.

Getting old is kind of like decay.

Decay in the form of a blessing, because the world—and I—get to keep you longer. I know you want to stay, too.

But time… it’s ruined you slowly, patiently, impartial to how much you mean to us. You tell me how you’re frustrated with your old body, the legs that give out sometimes, the back that can’t support your weight like it used to, the memory with holes.

I stand closer to you now, in case you fall. I walk unnecessarily slow so you don’t feel behind, because I know you do. You hate being a burden. You could never be a burden. We love you too much. I offer my arm for balance, but you never take it unless you need to. You have too much pride. That’s okay. I want you to have your pride.

My coffee’s gone cold. I don’t have a taste for it anymore. I look up to the sky again, the same one you look at, the same one we’ll be in together someday. A storm’s coming; a violent hurricane of cloud blackened by ash, maybe my premature grief, on the horizon.

It’s for me. I know it is.

Omens come in many forms.

How do you prepare for the death of someone that’s still alive?

I’ll say this is practice when I look at the sky, the clouds, my coffee.

But it’s really just torture.

Someday, my sky will be black, too.

And I’ll have to remember that this is your day.

Not mine.

I think I’ll call you now, while I can. While the world has you, I have you, and the storm’s on the horizon.

I think I’ll call you, and I’ll tell you I love you with rue in my voice that doesn’t belong, and you’ll hear the strain as I clawed the words out of my throat, “I love you, Grandpa.”

You’ll give a little scoff of surprise because you’re caught off guard, because you’re a strong man and I’ve only ever seen you cry twice, but you’ll say, “Well, honey… I love you, too.”

And I wonder if I should keep tallies starting today to count how many times you say you love me until I can’t hear it anymore.

One day, I’ll never hear it again.

I’ll never hear your voice.

God— Jesus—

Don’t let me forget the sound of your voice.

I lay awake at night sometimes, intrusive thoughts impaling my mind as I picture you in a suit, laid in your casket, your mouth still, your eyes closed.

I’m not ready.

I’ll never be ready.

But it’s not about me.

When the day comes— it will be about you.

The love, the laughter, and the work you put into this world. The profound impact you made on our lives, even when you had no idea. Even when you didn’t mean to.

When the day comes…

When the day is about the end of you…

I hope the sky is deceptively blue.