Today is World Poetry Day, and I’m going to try to write a few poems after work today, but if I seem absent or out of sorts, it’s because I received the call this morning that my grampa passed away.
He and I were never particularly close. He worried over me and loved me, but it was a tough love. He was eighty-eight-years-old and a fighter. My dad told me I’m a tough cookie just like him, and he was a fighter, stubborn as Hell, and persistent just like me, but we never really had a very close bond. I remember him telling me never to give up, and usually, he applied it to jobs, but I think he meant it for other things to. Just “don’t give up”, he would consistently remind me.
I haven’t given up. I’m still trying. My gramma told me he and she would pray for me and that they just hoped I would get my life lined up. Well, right now, I’m working on getting my books published, working on my Bachelor’s degree, and trying to make a difference in the world. I think my life is pretty well lined up. I think it’s okay that he let go. He stopped eating and drinking a little less than a week ago. I saw him on Saturday, his face looked like it was punched in because of dehydration and starvation, I’m assuming, and he would occasionally grasp my fingers because of pain. He was on morphine, but I knew that would be the last time I saw him.
When I saw him before that, we were in the hospital. His eyes were watery blue as always, his skin still had a softness to it, not the harsh brittleness it had on Saturday. He asked me about work and listened to my work stories with a small smile on his face. When I kissed him goodbye, I didn’t say goodbye. I said, “I love you.” and he said it back.
When I saw him on Saturday, I didn’t say goodbye. I said, “I love you.”