Losing someone important in your life is never easy, and it often gets worse before it gets better. It takes time to heal and to grieve and to let ourselves feel the mixture of emotions as we try to discover ways to cope with such a great loss.
When I think about my grandpa, I think about all of the great times that we shared: laughing at family gatherings, sneaking a cookie off the dessert plate on the counter before dinner was even served, seeing him on the sidelines at my softball games and in the stands during my volleyball games, updating him on all of the chaos in my life and him telling me, “You’ll be ok.”
But I also think about all of the good times that we will no longer be able to share. There was so much left to do—so many more family parties to attend, so many more of our games and performances to cheer on, so many more phone calls just to check up on us, so many more pieces of pie to eat on Thanksgiving, so many more hugs to give, so many more “I love yous” to be said, so many more birthdays to be celebrated, so many more weddings and births to be witnessed, so many more laughs to be shared, and so many more memories to be made.
Among many other things that death does to the living, it makes you appreciate the little things: the random phone call, stealing one more cookie before they are put away after dessert, him pointing out every single thing we pass by when we are in the car, speaking up to the umpires or referees when they made bad calls, the pictures for which he would always smile or make a funny face, the laughs we had when we used the ridiculous snapchat filters, simply knowing that he was safe, okay, and here.
It is an indescribable feeling to know that he and I no longer breathe the same air, will no longer exchange words, that we no longer live in the same world. I could always count on Papa Bud to make me laugh or smile, or to be my number one fan at my softball and volleyball games. I’m going to miss him yelling “safe!” when I was only halfway down the baseline, or shouting “strike!” when I clearly threw a ball. I’ll miss taking pictures with him at my games followed by him saying, “Set that as my background.”
Even when he couldn’t make one of my games—most likely because he was attending another family member’s game or performance (he supported us all)—he always made sure to call me or my dad to see how my game turned out. And even when I lost, he would always tell me, “Hey, good game.”Looking at all of the pictures I have of him smiling and being the goofball that he was gives me a bittersweet feeling. I am so thankful to have had such a wonderful person be such a big part of my life and my happiness, but saddened that he was taken from us so quickly. He was full of so much love and gave his family and friends every ounce of it as he supported us through anything.
I think the hardest moment is that when you ask yourself, I’m really never going to see him again? My life will never be the same without him in it, but the sun will still rise and the waves will still crash on the sandy shore. Life will go on, but there will always be that spot on the sidelines where I know he would be sitting and those peanut butter cookies sitting on the counter that I know he would be eating. And there will always be a special place in my heart just for him. Rest easy; until we meet again, Papa Bud.
