Sunday
It seems the closer we get to my grandpa's birthday, the more I feel like I'm losing my mind. I keep thinking about all the birthdays I missed...all the times I didn't call him because of my stupid stubbornness. He wrote me even after I had stopped writing him. He always thought about me and he remembered me even after he had forgotten everyone else. He always asked about me. And what? I stopped writing and calling him because I didn't want to be sad...? What kind of fucking lame excuse is that?!? Shouldn't I have called anyway, just to see how he was doing? I owed him at least that much. But I didn't.
I remember when they told me he was in the hospital, my world began to fall apart. I remember when they told me he was doing better and he was going home. But I think he was just waiting to go home to die. He wanted to be somewhere familiar to him with people that love him. I told my mother I'd call him as soon as he got out of the hospital but I was too late. Apparently they were too scared I was going to lose it so they hesitated in telling me. They wanted to tell my mother first but she was at work and so I ended up finding out anyway and telling her over the phone while she was at work. They were right in being scared. I did lose it. I'd hoped it was all a bad dream that I would wake up from.
I know nothing would have saved him. He was old, and I imagine he finally wanted a bit of peace...and to remember all the people that were in his life. I don't know why some part of me thought I would see him one last time. I remember everything about him and all the times we spent together. He cried right before I left to come here. I always missed him the most. Whenever I talked to my aunts or cousins, I always asked about him first. Now I can't even talk to them...it's weird not asking about him and sometimes it feels like he's still alive. Sometimes I still find myself wanting to ask about him but realizing at the last second that he is gone.
I have written to him many times since he died. I have talked to him and screamed at whatever god exists for taking him away from me. I have written to myself about everything that happened when he first began to get sick. I'm sure all of my friends are annoyed that I still talk about it but I can't not stop talking about him. He was such a huge part of my life. He was my father and the one who took care of me. Some days it still feels like this is all a dream and I can't really accept that he is dead until I see his ashes for myself. Until I go back to that house...to the room where he died and I see for myself that he is not alive anymore.
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