For Grandpa
As usual I find myself caught up in a storm of thought. Convoluted and rainy, bearing down against my gray matter from every angle of my skull. It’s dark in there with flashes of lightning and cracks of thunder that sometimes set off sparks when they hit something. Noisy and elemental.
Alone that may sound terror-ific but what I haven’t told you yet is that I like the rain. I like that dazzling darkness and the smell of energy burning in the air, half feral winds pulling me up off my feet while I scramble for shelter. It’s beautiful and honest and some of my best thoughts trickle out of this maelstrom like the first pure stream in Spring after a harsh and nebulous Winter.
Proseful illustrations aside I’d like to babble a bit about this idea of mine.
My grandfather died a few months ago. I handled it better than others perhaps might have seeing as he passed the night before I was able to fly out to see him. Some might bemoan that last lost opportunity to say goodbye while others might slowly let fester what could have, should have and whatever other ‘oulds there could have been between us but not me. Perhaps it’s this constant difficulty I feel in connecting to others or maybe it’s because I connect on a totally different level that allows me the rare opportunity in my age to look beyond the momentary.
Over the course of my rather short but seemingly long life I’ve had so many things taken from me, lost, destroyed or simply removed from my life. Mind you that while I say things I’m referring to ‘things’ beyond simple items. Family, friends, homes, safety. Precious photos of moments never to be visited again, beloved pets and dear ears and shoulders to cry to. Books and teachers, religion and the firm ground beneath my feet.
Lost, taken, destroyed or removed.
Some of these things could be replaced, others not so much. Either way the sentiment is always what has changed and it’s often that intangible piece of meaning I’ve found myself grasping at. Sometimes it’s all I’ve had which is why, more or less probably, I find myself far more attached to the concept than the thing.
In short:
My grandfather’s body is naught but a symbol, an image one can put energy into in order for it to mean something.
My grandfather, as in the man I knew and grew with, is very much still alive as far as I’m concerned.
He lives in the memories he gave me and the teachings he passed along. He lives everytime I contemplate how to build something, my earliest lesson involving a rainbow colored birdhouse. He lives everytime I hear a bow drawn over the strings of a violin of a scant of Irish lilt. He lives in all my favorite poems and the tale of Monte Cristo.
He lives in cigar smoke, dusty boots and cowboy hats. He lives in my inability to tolerate contemporary hip hop and far too repetitive lyrics and everytime I call the cats. He’s there in homemade blankets and green rugs, antiques and an appreciation of the world beyond the seen borders.
He lives in honor and respect, love and obstinacy.
And without further digression I come to my idea…
I want to write something for him. Something to honor his memory, to show how much I respect all he has taught me and though I love him a great deal just how obstinate I have learned to be against some of those teachings. 
I don’t know what it will be yet, a series of short poems or stories perhaps. I feel that I’m at a disadvantage for my yearning because of the small window of time I was afforded to know him and how narrow my view might be as a result but maybe that’s the beauty in the whole thing. He was so much more than I can ever know but I have what I do know of him and death can never take that away, sentiment can live beyond the circle of life if you’re not afraid to tell a story again and again.
