6 years ago, my grandfather died from cancer. I was 9 at the time. The most vivid memory I have from when he was still alive was before he had gotten sick. Before we spent a year visiting him in a nursing home, wondering if he would ever get better. I was showing him a wooden barbie toy that you could dress up as. I never knew he was sick. He usually was in his rocking chair, sleeping, or telling jokes. Too young to see that anything was wrong, I continued to live, thinking he was perfectly healthy. But deep down, I think I knew something was different. My grandpa, from everything I heard, was a great man. He stood up for those who couldn’t, and cared for those around him. Ever since I heard that he had died, alone in a hospital bed, while I was at a friend’s house, laughing, and enjoying myself, a sense of guilt has followed me.
My middle name, Reece, came from my grandfather. It’s like I carry a part of him, even though I only knew him for 9 years. I knew him less than everybody else, I wish I could have visited him once more, just to tell him that I loved him. I ate ice cream with him, watched tv shows, and just talked when I visited him. It was weird when Christmas came around, and he still hadn’t come home. I’m not a very religious person, but I found myself praying that next Christmas I would see him again. In his own house, sleeping on the chair in the living room. Unfortunately, this prayer never came to life. I used to be very angry at myself, my parents, and even the world. My grandpa wasn’t perfect, but he was all you could ever ask for. Caring, protective, and makes too many dad jokes to count. To this day, I still miss him. I don’t think the grief that is buried deep in my heart will ever go away. I do think, however, that he would want me to live my life without looking back.
A few days ago, my grandma gave me all of my grandpa’s old things. His old flip phone, which needed many repairs. An old tape measure of his, and his memorial box. I was looking through an old crate, and found a small container. At first, I thought it was oddly shaped rings, but then I remembered. My great uncle had made my grandpa a banjo. I had found his old guitar, and banjo picks. It felt like a sign that my grandpa had seen what I had been working on for the past year of my life, and approved. 2 months of playing guitar, a year of playing piano, 2 weeks on bass, and my whole life singing. All the music I have played and heard, all led back to my grandpa, who had hidden his tears when he had been given this banjo. I think if he was still here, he would have been truly proud of me. Not the fake kind, where they give you a pat on the back, while scrolling tiktok, but genuine proudness. Most of the time, I grieve what I will never have. He will never see any of my performances, or my college graduation, or even my wedding.
One day, I hope to see him again. Hopefully, many years from now, but as everybody does, I miss him. I wish he was here right now, so I could talk about everything. From the band that I have just joined, how I want to work right down the street from his house, at a place where you can teach music. How I’ve been dreaming of becoming an author, or a music teacher one day, and going to a college far away from my hometown. I want to tell him that I think he’s a good person, and that I love him. I love that my middle name came from him, and knowing that it means enthusiasm, really fits the both of us. So, goodbye grandpa, I hope to see you someday soon.
Author’s Note:
For a long time I struggled with grief about my grandpas passing. I usually don’t write about my feelings, and I wanted to write about someone who was really important of me. It means a lot to me, knowing that over the years I have changed, but I still have a part of my grandpa at all times, my middle name. :)
Kylie Reece Parker | 14 | United States of America
