Today I find myself thinking about my grandfather, my mother’s father, Al, who passed away when I was about one year old. He had pancreatic cancer (the family curse) and died way too young, in his fifties, I believe.
I realized today that I know very little about him. I know he loved the outdoors, was an avid hunter and archer and was very handy (even owned his own tv/radio repair shop).
What I know about him I know from anecdotes told by my mom, dad and grandma. I know that he is the reason I sucked my thumb until I was five (when I was a baby and was crying, he would walk me up and down the hallway of his house, prying my thumb out of my clenched fist and popping it into my mouth to quiet me down), and is possibly where my brother and I got our inclination to whistle when we’re happy.
I’ve seen pictures of him in the many family picture albums at my grandma’s house and this one particular one comes to mind. It was when he was sick, towards the end of his life, and he and I are laying in his bed together. I’m a baby - my guess is that I’m probably five or six months old. He’s turned on his side, facing me, smiling and talking to me. I’m looking happy and comfortable, I think in a little blue (or maybe white) sleeper outfit. I think the blanket on the bed is blue, too.
I have no memory of him and never got the chance to know him. This has always been the case, and I’ve just accepted it as fact. But today the father of a friend of mine passed away, from the same disease that took my grandpa, and he (my friend), has a three month old son. Before he died, he got to hold his grandson on his chest and rest with him for a little while.
It’s funny how things that happen to other people can bring up such strong feelings, but today I am mourning a grandfather I never knew. Today I learned how to miss something that I never really had in the first place.
