I'll promise not to let you go if you promise not to fade away.
Twenty years ago today, my maternal grandpa died. I was exactly one month shy of seven at the time. Even though it's been so long, I can still remember that day in detail. I still get pissed off when I think about how long the ambulance took to get to the house. Although I've been told by various family members and neighbors that he was probably dead long before 911 was called, I just can't get over it. Grandpa Tom was my best friend. He and Grandma practically raised me. Both of them are gone. No one is left on my mom's side of the family (that we know of, anyway). It's depressing to even think about.
It just still hurts so much. Grandpa Tom was the nicest guy you could ever meet. Everyone who ever did meet him loved him. He would do anything for anyone and they would do anything for him. It always felt magical to go with him anywhere because he knew absolutely everyone. We used to hang out at Venuso's and watch baseball. Most of the time, old man Venuso would take me back into the kitchen and let me make my own pizza. He and Grandpa were the ones that taught me how to cook. When we would go into the old, local drugstore, I would get candy for free because the clerks all knew Grandpa and adored him.
He was a pretty traditional guy, but liberal before his time. He married an Irish Protestant even though he was an Irish Catholic, which was a big no-no back in the day. When other guys wouldn't let their wives even get a driver's license, he bought my grandma her own car. He worked three jobs at all times. Not just to keep the family going, but because he genuinely liked what he did. Even though, before WWII, he had studied to be a mortician, he ended up being a mechanic instead. He knew the ins and outs of every machine that existed and could fix them all. When Pearl Harbor was attacked, he lied about his age to join the army because he thought it was the right thing to do. He ended up storming the beach at Normandy and although he never liked to talk about it, everyone knew that he was a war hero. Even though he could be gruff, he was a sensitive guy. The reason he never became a mortician is because when he was interning, his best friend died in a motorcycle accident and was sent to the funeral home where he was working.
I'm sitting here crying as I type this because his death is just one thing I will never understand. Maybe because it happened when I was so young. Yesterday was my 11 month anniversary at work. In a month, I'll be 27. I wish more than anything that he could be here to see me now and how far I've come. I wish that I could've at least hugged him one more time before he died.
It rained today. Like it does on this day every year. My mom and I were going to visit the graves, but we decided that it was just too hard. Too much to bear anymore. It should get easier as time goes on, but somehow, it doesn't.
It just still hurts so much. Grandpa Tom was the nicest guy you could ever meet. Everyone who ever did meet him loved him. He would do anything for anyone and they would do anything for him. It always felt magical to go with him anywhere because he knew absolutely everyone. We used to hang out at Venuso's and watch baseball. Most of the time, old man Venuso would take me back into the kitchen and let me make my own pizza. He and Grandpa were the ones that taught me how to cook. When we would go into the old, local drugstore, I would get candy for free because the clerks all knew Grandpa and adored him.
He was a pretty traditional guy, but liberal before his time. He married an Irish Protestant even though he was an Irish Catholic, which was a big no-no back in the day. When other guys wouldn't let their wives even get a driver's license, he bought my grandma her own car. He worked three jobs at all times. Not just to keep the family going, but because he genuinely liked what he did. Even though, before WWII, he had studied to be a mortician, he ended up being a mechanic instead. He knew the ins and outs of every machine that existed and could fix them all. When Pearl Harbor was attacked, he lied about his age to join the army because he thought it was the right thing to do. He ended up storming the beach at Normandy and although he never liked to talk about it, everyone knew that he was a war hero. Even though he could be gruff, he was a sensitive guy. The reason he never became a mortician is because when he was interning, his best friend died in a motorcycle accident and was sent to the funeral home where he was working.
I'm sitting here crying as I type this because his death is just one thing I will never understand. Maybe because it happened when I was so young. Yesterday was my 11 month anniversary at work. In a month, I'll be 27. I wish more than anything that he could be here to see me now and how far I've come. I wish that I could've at least hugged him one more time before he died.
It rained today. Like it does on this day every year. My mom and I were going to visit the graves, but we decided that it was just too hard. Too much to bear anymore. It should get easier as time goes on, but somehow, it doesn't.