The boy has some gorgeous brown eyes, with the kind of long
lashes others spend hundreds of dollars to recreate. He is staring at me across
his chicken nuggets and fries, the joviality of the local watering hole a
contrast to his quiet words. “Mom, I’m sad I don’t have a grandpa to teach me
how to fish.” It’s the kind of punch that can stop your breath. And the kind of
loss only a ten year old could feel.
We’d been talking about his grandpa earlier that day, on
what would have been his eightieth birthday. Mass and donuts, and a couple of
basketball games with the extended family began the day. And then Marty was off
to his friend’s for a play date. He and his buddy are the comic book types, and
spent their afternoon creating good guys to slay the villians. I reconvened
with two of my brood at dinner. Apparently his thoughts of grandpa had been
smoldering all day.
I think about it too, this loss that is immeasurable. My dad
died before any of these three were born, and I can’t imagine the way things
would be different with him in their lives. I have a picture of my dad holding
my cousin Angela when she was a baby, and I fantasize about MY babies looking
up into his red flannel shirt and smiling blue eyes. How many lost moments from
there to here? How many lessons unlearned for my kiddos?
Grandma is fantastic, don’t get me wrong. She fills my boy
with brownies and Bible stories. She sends him home with giant balls of twine
and wooden figures for painting and creating. And where else would my kids
watch the rosary on television in the afternoon or clamor for a front row
Jeopardy seat? Just last week, this same boy called Grandma to beg a visit in
order to avoid yet another of his sister’s basketball games. Grandma has been a
constant in my children’s growth. She watched all of my kids at least one day a
week from the day they were born. That’s a lot of Grandma-isms and snuggles and
quality time.
But what if Grandpa was here? I can just picture the nature
walks, my dad patiently pointing out a crocus poking through the soil or the
tracks of a deer. He really would teach
them how to fish, and to spit on the worm for good luck. I can totally hear the
stories he would tell, and the voices he would create, my children’s eyes lit
up in anticipation. I’m not sure who would enjoy celebrating Christmas more, or
breaking mom’s rules when she wasn’t looking, but I have the sense that there
would be a LOT of giggling, a lot of sneaking around, and a whole heap of fun.
Unfortunately, we cannot re-write history, and even a comic
book aficionado like Martin can’t create a super hero strong enough to wipe out
death, or the myriad of illnesses my dad succumbed to. Missing my dad is one thing, but I hate the
sucker punch for my children of life without their Grandpa. Certainly my father’s daughter, I have taught
them to plant tomatoes and appreciate the water and listen to the call of the
robins in the yard. I have passed on his love of writing and storytelling, as
well as his faith. But at the end of the day, on the edge of the lake, we are all still at a loss as to how to get the worm on the hook.
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