I should, I know I should. My grandfather is dying; my mother and aunt are bustling around, making arrangements to fly down to Alabama for the funeral (the doctors are giving him less than a week), my brother is on the phone trying to get off work, and I don't feel a doggone thing.
I know I SHOULD feel a compelling urge to make my peace with him, to talk to him, to hold his hand one last time, but I don't.
I've been letting all these memories flash through my mind, trying to make myself care.
Memories of him and my brother and I walking to the drug store, picking out a comic book and Tastee Cake each. Or going to the playground. Or Carvel. Or the video arcade.
I remember the soapbox racer he made for Greg and I. I remember the swing he made in his backyard. I remember him filling the wading pool for us. And I remember roasting smores with him.
But I also remember his hatred for my father. I remember how he turned his back on me once I grew old enough to speak my mind, once I stopped being a complacent child. I remember how he stood aside and did nothing as his neighbor's son molested me when I was just a little older than Lissa is now. I remember his intolerance towards anyone different from himself (blacks, jews, women).
I remember last year, when we thought my grandmother was dying and I wanted to visit with her, and he told my mother to make sure that I didn't come, that he didn't want to be anywhere near me. And I acquiesed to his wishes, not for him, but because my mom didn't need any more stress than she already had.
So, I'm sorry grandpa, but I don't love you and I won't miss you.
