deep breath, we're going in for more . . .
2) to my grandfather, robert:
sorry for the fact that i couldn't say anything to you that time i drove you to your doctor's appointment when you were dying of leukemia, and told me that you were in so much pain you really just wanted to let go.
i was too young to really "get" that you were maybe telling me that you were ready, that you were calm about it, that you were tired. i was twenty. you had always been my rock, stronger than any man i knew, gruffer and smarter than any human i had ever been near, and perhaps, an idol for me.
we had spent so much of our life talking, that i was stunned that i didn't have anything to say.
when i was so young and you would walk with me through those winding roads on st. croix, where you and nana had that home at the top of the island and looked out across the sunsets and the sea, where nana thought she saw the UFO that one night and you backed her your entire life "if ellen says she saw it, it was there", who would hold my tiny hand on the beaches of that island, or on the streets of manhattan, the other island, and talk to me about what was going on in your life, and ask about mine, as if it mattered. i'm sorry, it did, i guess. it did to you.
you gave me words, you know that? you gave me The Source by Michener, and Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand, when i was ten. "read them every three years, they'll remind you", and though you never told me WHAT they would remind me of, i have read them every three years since i was ten. you probably gave me the need to write, to talk, to babble and rant and love the caress of language.
so when all words failed me, i felt like i failed you.
but i love you. did then. do still.
and i know you didn't need me to tell you that.
just wanted you to know.