My words are fleeting.
I got a phone call from my father before I left for work on Wednesday. "Your grandfather died today." The words sounded so foreign... He got hit by a truck at 5:30 in the morning down in Texas, where he goes every year to vacation. The boy who hit him is only eighteen years old. I feel bad for him.. It really isn't his fault. It was raining. It was early. And my grandfather is going deaf. I feel bad for my grandfather.. I know death is unexpected. I just wish he didn't have to go this way. I don't want to think about the impact of the grill of the truck hitting his poor body. I don't want to think about his head trauma or his internal injuries. I don't want to think that he was cremated because the body probably wasn't in the right condition for a wake.
I still don't know him. And now I never will. I had made plans in my head (oh what plans...) to make sure to visit him next time I made it back down to the place where I grew up. I was going to tell him who I was, what I was going to make of myself. I wanted to tell him that I loved him, even though he doesn't know me. I'd hug him as he softly chuckled, not really ever comprehending what was going on. I'd show him my book -- the one with his photograph in it. I'm sure he'd ask "Is that me?" or.. "I thought I broke your camera." However, that is not how it is going to be. He will never see the book. He'll never get the chance to know me or talk to me ever again. I'll never get the chance to say goodbye. It hurts.. It really does. I'll just sit alone in my apartment trying not to think.
"I've had a rough year, dad."
"I know you have, Chassie."
